Zeitgeist, Volume One: Black Edelweiss
by The Black Sluggard
Summary: Two weeks after Claire Bennet's televised leap from the Ferris wheel, the 12th handles it's first case delving into the strange world of specials. Evidence points the investigation toward a former Company Agent, a man Noah Bennet would swear up and down doesn't exist. Pre-slash, Javier Esposito/Kevin Ryan. Follows "One Giant Leap". More than 40 chapters finished, updates Sundays.
1. Chapter One: Brave New World

**Chapter One: Brave New World**

* * *

_We all were sea-swallow'd, though some cast again:_  
_And, by that destiny, to perform an act,_  
_Whereof what's past is prologue, what to come_  
_In yours and my discharge._  
_—The Tempest; Act II, Scene I_

* * *

_ **Manhattan, New York; December 17th, 2010** _

Kate Beckett pressed her lips together to suppress an amused smile as Castle jogged along ahead of her. He was walking backwards so he could be sure of her full attention, arms swinging in a wide gesture as he spoke at her animatedly. She might have warned him had he allowed her to get a word in, but as it was there was no saving him from his collision with the uniformed officer who came up behind him.

At least he hadn't spilled his coffee on himself or their crime-scene.

While Castle turned to express his apologies to the officer, Kate took her opportunity and ducked under the tape. He was quick to catch up, though he seemed to have lost track of their conversation—monologue. Whatever.

"Where was I?"

Kate considered pretending not to remember, but knew he'd just act hurt if he thought she wasn't listening. Though she'd never admit it to anyone, least of all him, Rick's pout wasn't an easy thing to deal with.

"Specials," she reminded him dutifully, with a patient smile, "and how to write them into your books."

It was pretty much all that he had been able to talk about for more than a week. Not that he was alone in that. The news had only been broken two weeks ago, and the issue was at the forefront of everyone's minds. The knowledge had been overwhelming, though in his typical fashion, Castle had managed to deal with it by shrinking it down to something he could deal with: fiction. Right now, Kate was thankful that buffer existed between the enormity of the subject of specials and the conversation they had actually been having. Otherwise, she might not have been able to put the thoughts aside and focus on her job.

"Oh, right," Castle said with a vacant blink, eyes moving as he retraced the conversation and before he blitzed right back into it. "Anyway, it's an important step if I want to stay relevant. It's a brave new world out there, Kate."

She managed not to sigh. Castle was more of an asset to her team than she would ever admit to anyone out loud, but that usefulness had flagged ever since the bizarre incident in Central Park. At first she'd simply forgiven it—to be honest Kevin hadn't been much better. Everyone had been awed and shaken by the revelation that had been made to the world that night, and—in Castle's words the following week—who could focus on something like murder when there were people out there who could _fly_? Walk through walls? Live forever? Adjusting to that reality hadn't been _easy _for anybody. In the beginning, Kate had worried about Javier. His reaction had struck her as being...off somehow. The wake of the Park Incident had left him oddly quiet, and whatever he was dealing with had proved very damaging to his focus. Thankfully, he'd also been the first to shrug it off, putting it behind him after only a few days and keeping his mind busy with whatever was in front of him. Kate had tried do the same.

Castle, meanwhile, had seemed childishly vindicated by the whole thing; as though in proving that the world wasn't ironed-out as flat as everyone had once thought, the universe had somehow done him a favor, and he was loath to let the topic go for even a minute. While she could understand his excitement, facing it daily would quickly become exhausting.

"It's the same world, Castle," she said, finally, knowing he needed _something_. "We just know more about it."

Castle frowned thoughtfully.

"So you're saying I should use one of the characters I already have?" He paused, considering. "Huh. Do you think revealing Ochoa as a special would throw off Roach's dynamic...?"

Kate's mouth pulled in that smile she'd been avoiding and she shook her head. Turning around she greeted Kevin Ryan and his partner a with a nod before she turned her attention to the victim.

The body had been found inside the first floor loft of a warehouse building in Chelsea. He was an older man, in his sixties or seventies, with receding grey hair that had been pulled back into a short ponytail. A pair of round, dark-framed eyeglasses hung askew on his face. He was dressed for the weather, a long dark scarf and a grey coat thrown over his sweater, shirt and tie. The sweater, originally a medium blue-grey, had been darkened to a murky color by the blood which had run out from a narrow puncture wound just under his sternum. Blood had pooled around the body where it lay, obscuring what looked to be the remains of a long-faded mural that had once been painted on the floor. From the amount of blood that had collected, Kate knew this was unlikely to have been a dump.

"What do we have?" she asked, finally.

"A patrolman discovered the body around four A.M. when he noticed the front door of the building had been left wide open," Kevin supplied, looking over his notes. "Uniforms have already asked around the neighborhood, but so far they haven't come up with any witnesses. The building has been empty for more than three years, and the lock showed signs of tampering, so we're probably looking at a break-in. The victim's name is Jonas Zimmerman. Seventy-five according to his California driver's license, which lists his current address in Reseda."

"He's a long way from home," Lanie Parish observed as she stepped around the two detectives to snap a picture.

The camera's flash highlighted a glimpse of white peeking out from beneath the victim's scarf.

"May I?"

At the ME's nod, Kate stepped forward carefully and crouched down to get a better look. Taking a pen from her pocket she drew the fabric to the side. Underneath she saw the white flower the victim wore buttoned to the lapel of his coat. It was strange-looking. The long, thin petals arrayed star-like around the yellow clusters at the center had an odd, furry texture.

"Our guess is that he was here visiting family," Kevin continued, flicking his fingers toward Javier in an inclusive gesture. "He was carrying a letter on him from a _Barbara _Zimmerman with an address in Mid-Town. We're hoping the body of the letter might confirm that, there's just one problem."

He handed her the letter as she stood. Skimming its contents through the protective plastic, Kate was quick to see the problem herself.

"It's in German," Castle commented, leaning over her shoulder. Kate repressed the childish urge to drag the letter away where he couldn't see. "Does that say Auschwitz?"

"Do you speak German, Castle?" Kate asked skeptically, looking over her shoulder.

"Uh, no," Castle admitted innocently, "but I know how '_Auschwitz_' is spelled."

"It doesn't say 'Auschwitz'."

Castle shifted his coffee to his other hand and pointed with a gloved finger to a spot on the page. Kate squinted.

"Okay," she admitted, reluctantly, "_Maybe_. But lets wait on CSU's translation before you jump to any conclusions."

"Aw, but Kate," Castle said, looking at her with an exaggeratedly sorrowful expression, "If I wait then when the translation reveals the epic Nazi conspiracy outlined in the letter, I won't be able to say 'I told you so'."

Kevin shook his head with a smile, and even Javier snorted at that. It was the most Kate had heard from him all morning.

"Alright," she said, turning to the two detectives so that Castle wouldn't see her own smile, "I want you two to check out that address and try and track down Barbara. I'm going to head back to the station and contact the PD in Reseda while we wait on the letter. See what I can get on our victim."

"You got it," Kevin said.

He glanced at his partner briefly, and Kate caught his slight frown. Javier drew his attention away from their victim and tossed Kevin a nod, still silent. As they took off together Kate glanced over at Castle. From the writer's puzzled expression, whatever was going on, he had picked up on it too.

"Hey Lanie," he asked, looking over at the ME who was now bagging the peculiar, furry white flower. "What's up with Javier? He's kind of quiet today."

Lanie tossed a glance at the retreating pair, lips pursing slightly.

"Castle, I haven't got a clue what _Detective_ _Esposito_'s problem is," she answered, raising her voice pointedly as she spoke his title, her tone carrying well across the empty loft. She pressed the seal on the bag and began labeling the tag. As the two detectives passed beyond the tape, she lowered her tone. "_Not _that I don't have my theories..."

**(— **  
**=)**

Kevin shot a questioning look over his shoulder as they left the building on Reed Street. Javier realized he must have heard Lanie's comment as well.

"Trouble in paradise, 'Detective'?" his partner asked, predictably.

Javier sighed.

"More like a hurricane that wiped out the whole sunny little island..."

The warm metaphor only served to remind him how bitterly cold the weather was. He blew into his hands again, which only helped for a few seconds before the moisture of his breath started to grow cold again.

"Ah, bro, that sucks," Kevin offered sympathetically, sounding genuinely heartbroken for him.

As they walked, Kevin reached a hand into his pocket and handed something aside to Javier. His gloves, he realized. Kevin must have picked them up from his desk on the way out.

"_Chica's _crazy," he said with a shrug as he unrolled them. "She actually thought—"

Javier brought the sentence up short, exhaling his frustration instead.

"You know what," he continued finally, shaking his head, "it doesn't matter. It was nice. We just...didn't work."

"Maybe it just wasn't meant to be."

Javier's step stuttered and he came to a stop. He managed to avoid looking at his partner until he could be sure none of his disquiet showed on his face. He pulled on his gloves slowly, fitting the fingers, focusing on them more than he needed to to try and cover the pause. Not that he thought for a second his reaction had gone entirely unnoticed.

"So what do you think?" Javier asked once he finally managed to look Kevin in the eye. "About the case."

Kevin's eyes hesitated on his face for a moment before he answered with a faint smile.

"I think we lucked out with the whole Nazi thing."

Even in his off mood, Javier couldn't help but snort.

"Bro, I fail to see _how_."

"Are you kidding?" Kevin asked, his eyes bright. "It's _Castle_. His crackpot theories included things like mummies and time-travel even _before _life got weird. Hand him Nazis and who even _knows _what he'll come up with. Maybe for the first time all month he won't be thinking about specials."

Whatever levity Javier might have won from the anticipation of Castle's antics died a slow and painful death.

"I wouldn't bet on it," Javier said quietly as he fell back into step beside his partner.

It was more than a simple hunch.

Unknown to Kevin, Javier's mood had nothing to do with him and Lanie—or the complete and utter destruction of the very _idea _of "him and Lanie"—and everything to do with the case.

It was too soon. _Far_ too soon.

Barely two weeks had passed since a girl had jumped from the top of a Ferris wheel in view of cameras and lived to tell an incredible story. Less than two weeks since Javier had been forced to reexamine his reality along with the rest of the world—only with a unique insight toward where that reality might be headed. Because the "Park Incident" as they were calling it had happened just as his "dream" had hinted. Because there were these people called "specials" who could do impossible things, and he didn't know what that said about him. Because his search that same night had revealed that there really _was_ an Anthony DiNozzo working for NCIS in Washington. Because Castle had let the title _Heat Rises_ slip out during lunch just the week before, and suddenly what had simply seemed predictable now felt like a _sign_.

He'd chosen the blue pill, God damn it. He'd chosen to bury himself in denial and tell himself it _had _all been a dream. But so-called "reality" had decided to knock on his door and kick him in the teeth anyway. It just wasn't fair.

After the Park Incident, it had crossed Javier's mind to talk to someone about what he'd come to suspect about himself. To tell _someone _what he'd seen. Any other time Kevin would have been the obvious choice, but his partner was the last person he felt he could go to with this. It wasn't that he didn't trust Kevin. If it was just a matter of admitting that he thought he might have some kind of abnormal ability, he was certain his partner would still have his back. No, that wasn't it at all...

He just didn't think he could look Kevin in the eye and tell him about the future he'd been shown: one where they were _together_. Possibly even married. He'd imagined that conversation more than once, never without a sick quiver in his stomach. He just knew he couldn't handle that.

He hadn't felt comfortable telling Kate, either. Again, not for lack of trust, but simply because he was childishly fearful that she'd insist he tell Kevin anyway.

He'd finally wound up going to Ike Thornton, his old partner. A man he knew he could not only trust, but who he knew could keep a serious secret—the man's "death" more than three years ago had proved _that _much. Explaining his fears to Ike—that he might have an ability—had been strange enough. Describing his "vision" and the actions of his future self had been worse than embarrassing, even without factoring in the relationship he'd read in between the lines. Ike wasn't sure he believed it, though he hadn't _disbelieved _it, either. Claire Bennet's stunt in Central Park had shattered the ceiling on a lot of people's perceptions of what was and wasn't possible. Still, it had been a lot to swallow. Javier could relate, and then some.

Ike had suggest he treat it like a case, decide what the important pieces were and try to put them together into something that made sense.

That hadn't struck Javier as a bad idea. It _was _just like a case in some ways, though not like a homicide or robbery, where the apprehension of a single suspect was the goal. It was more like when he and Ike had worked Organized Crime. In that department, it was essential not to get caught up a single collar and instead try and make sense of the larger picture.

Since that conversation, Javier had been desperately cataloging every detail he could remember about what had happened to him back in June. He'd written down every bit he could recall of the "dream" he'd tried so desperately to forget. He had printed out the photos Castle had taken of them that night for the case file he now kept taped to the back of his dresser. It wasn't until after he'd done it that he wound up looking at that one photograph of him and Kevin, wondering if it was the exact same copy he would be carrying eight years from now... He wished to God he hadn't deleted that voice mail. What if it was important? He'd watched the movie Kevin and he had rented, and every one that DiNozzo mentioned that he could remember.

Names, allusions, the car, the photos; any one of them might turn out to be significant.

Now, more of it was happening. Now it was the Zimmerman case—a case whose circumstances he hadn't learned, but that in eight years would still weigh heavily on Kevin's mind. That had to mean something, right? Not for the first time, Javier felt that sucking dread in his chest, the feeling that he was being dragged toward a future he didn't understand, and that he might be helpless to effect its outcome.

He had taken the dream as a hint that he should try and put some distance between himself and Kevin. It had been a spectacular failure. Javier hadn't realized just how deeply in each other's pockets he and his partner were until he tried to force that distance. Kevin had seemed to notice, and had acted rather hurt. And Javier had found himself disturbed by the realization that he couldn't stand to see that hurt in Kevin's eyes. Instead, he had been content with trying to divert his focus to Lanie, hoping that if he tried hard enough he would forget that his and his partner's closeness had ever threatened to mean anything. That he could forget how conflicted he had felt when he saw Kevin bend a knee in front of Jenny in the station of all places...

And that was when it had still been just a _dream_.

Now, if Javier was a little bit afraid of causing that future, he was even more afraid of making it worse. He simply didn't have enough information to decide what to do— Which _in _that future, he figured, had probably been Kevin's purpose in keeping him in the dark. And perhaps his own purpose, he though uncomfortably, remembering the clues that had been left behind for him after the vision had faded. Had he been nudging himself in the right direction? If so, the touch was subtle. Nonetheless, he couldn't help but feel like he was being manipulated, persecuted by those two strangers and the plans they had for him and his partner...

_This is bullshit_, Javier decided, stomping down on that train of thought.

He couldn't keep second guessing himself like this. Not if he hoped to stay sane. All he could do for now was focus on the case—his own _and_ the team's—and hope that when the time came, he knew what he had to do.


	2. Interlude 1—December 2010

_**Javier & Ike—New York; December 6th, 2010**_

"I think...I might be one of them," Javier said.

The sentence dragged, painful coming out like removing a barbed splinter. He had spent all night trying to figure out how to start this talk, but none of the openings he considered had sounded remotely promising...or sane. Still, he knew if he didn't just go ahead and say it he was going to chicken out. And he needed to tell _somebody_. Somebody he could trust, and who didn't have a stake in what he had seen. Somebody he knew could keep a secret.

Ike had been it.

"One of...?"

His former partner's face twisted in brief confusion, an expression that only changed in flavor as he realized what Javier meant.

"Wait, one of _them_?" Ike asked, stressing the word significantly. "The people. With the, er...powers."

"Uh-huh," Javier managed weakly.

Hitting his beer to wet his dry throat, Javier wound up taking about half of it in one swallow. He sat for a long, dazed moment, unable to imagine what came next in this kind of conversation. Though he hadn't intended it, the pause drew out. Eventually, Ike grew restless and asked.

"What... What happened? I mean, there's gotta be some reason you think that, right?"

"I'm going to tell you," Javier promised with a slow nod, pointedly not looking at Ike, not wanting to see what was reflected in his face just yet. "I'll tell you, but you have to swear to God you will _not _laugh. I mean it. If you laugh, I walk out that door and I never talk to you again."

Javier tore his eyes away from nothing to look at Ike then, relieved when the man's gaze—intent more than anything else—showed that he was taking the situation seriously.

"Alright, Javier, I get it. I promise."

Javier accepted the promise, but it still took him a few more seconds to muster the words together.

"Back in summer," he began, "I think...I think I saw the future."

He watched Ike's face, wishing for a brief second that the man _wasn't _so adept at keeping things hidden.

"Only I didn't just see it," Javier clarified, speaking low, slowly, cautious. "I think I was actually _there_."

Ike stared at him for a moment, quiet and still and considering, before he managed to respond.

"You swear this isn't a joke?" Ike asked. Not accusing, simply asking for confirmation.

"On my sister's kids," Javier swore.

The fact that, by his estimate, his sister wouldn't have "kids"—plural—for at least another three years was a detail he did not feel comfortable pointing out.

There was another pause before Ike cautiously asked...

"So you're saying you...you think you...time traveled?"

Javier hesitated a moment before he gave a reluctant nod.

"Yeah," Javier confirmed. "Something like that."

"And this all happened months ago?"

"Back in June," Javier said, adding after some quick math in his head. "So just over half a year?"

"And you're only telling me _now _because you think I might believe you?"

Javier met Ike's gaze evenly.

"Dude, back then _I_ didn't believe it happened. I thought it was just a dream. A weird, vivid, screwed _up_ dream, but..." Javier sat back, running a hand over his face. "Okay, there were things that didn't add up about it, but I tried to forget them. Because back then everyone _knew _that sort of shit was impossible. Only now..."

Javier paused, feeling again the sucking dread he'd felt the night he watched that girl jump and shatter and still somehow come away unharmed.

"Now _nobody _knows what is and isn't possible."

Ike nodded quietly, digesting what he'd heard.

"Okay," Ike said finally. "I think I'm on board so far."

A beat passed before it sank in that Ike believed him—or at the very least, hadn't decided he was nuts.

"Well good," Javier said, almost managing to sound normal. "Because that's not even the weirdest part..."


	3. Chapter Two: Rope Enough

**Chapter Two: Rope Enough**

_"Life for a punctual person is like a roller coaster. All kinds of things are going to happen to you! Sure, I can see the whole roller coaster you're on. And sure — I could give you a piece of paper that would tell you about every dip and turn, warn you about every bogeyman that was going to pop out at you in the tunnels. But that wouldn't help you any. Because you'd still have to take the roller-coaster ride, I didn't design the roller coaster, I don't own it, and I don't say who rides and who doesn't. I just know what it's shaped like." _  
— _Kurt Vonnegut, The Sirens of Titan_

* * *

They picked up a late, last minute breakfast on their way into Mid-Town. Normally Javier would have been much more on-task, but he was unsurprisingly reluctant to rush ahead and tackle this one. Not that he had felt much like eating, but he figured it might help settle his stomach. And, as his partner watched him pick distractedly at the food he'd insisted on stopping for, he was certain yet more details were being filed away in Kevin's head. Sooner or later, he knew, Kevin would insist on asking what it was that was really bothering him. When that happened, Javier didn't have a _clue _what he was going to tell him.

They were only just finished when Kevin answered a call on his cell. From the way he whipped out his notepad, Javier assumed it was Kate and didn't interrupt.

"Uh-huh. Is that with— With a 'D' _and _a 'T'? Okay."

As they pulled up near the building, Kevin tore a sheet out of the booklet and handed it to Javier. It was the page with the address and apartment number. Familiar with Kevin's brand of tunnel vision when he was jotting down details, Javier exited the car, confident his partner would follow. Sure enough, Kevin kept up as he navigated the building for the both of them.

"That was Beckett," Kevin clarified needlessly, ending the call as they entered the elevator.

"Turns out our _Dr_. Zimmerman was a geneticist," Kevin supplied. "German-born, living in the country since the early '60s. Kate managed to confirm that Barbara is his daughter, adopted. She's his only family living in the States."

As he punched in the floor, Javier could see an amused light enter his partner's eyes.

"Also, Lanie's still processing the body, but she wanted Becks to give us a heads up regarding our murder weapon. Some sort of very long, thin blade or similar object. From the shape and angle of the entry and exit wounds, she's thinking some kind of sword."

"A _sword_?" Javier asked, caught off guard.

"Yeah." Kevin confirmed with a grin. "Poor Beckett. Apparently Castle's theories are becoming a little less _Indiana Jones_ and a lot more _Highlander_."

That actually managed to make Javier laugh a little.

"They've only managed to do a rough translation on the letter so far. I guess the daughter wrote her father about having seen some guy he used to work with here in Manhattan, uh," Kevin rechecked the name off his notes. "Konrad Reichardt."

The elevator doors opened. For a moment, Javier couldn't get his legs to work. He caught the doors before they closed again, and took a step forward. Kevin followed, still focused on his notes. This time it seemed his lapse had gone unnoticed.

"It sounds like there was some kind of grudge between the two of them back in the day," Kevin continued, "Some dispute over medical ethics that got Zimmerman fired from the company they worked for. I guess this Reichardt spent some time in Auschwitz—yeah, Castle had that one right, believe it or not. She hints that the grudge wasn't personal so much as Reichardt's history with Mengele colored his perceptions of her father. Can you believe that?"

Javier listened, but the details seemed to fall through his fingers.

Half-remembered, Javier hadn't been sure of the name DiNozzo had spoken—through the door it had sounded like it could have been Richards, Richter, or possibly "Riker's", in reference to the prison. Or it might have been something else entirely. All that he'd known for certain was that, whatever it was, it had hurt Kevin, cutting so deep that eight years from now he still bore the hidden scars. _Destroyed _him, to use Kevin's own words. The bitter pain that had so transformed his partner's voice had remained one of the most vivid elements in his memory. While Javier had been slow to accept that a stolen kiss might conceivably be something his mind had manufactured on its own, there was nothing he could imagine to explain that hurt.

Now, he recognized Reichardt's name for what it was. He knew next to nothing about this man, Konrad, but whoever he was, both he and this case were bound to have a devastating impact on their future.

Unless Javier managed to stop it. But how could he even begin to try when he knew so little? Not for the first time, he was left questioning his own motives—or rather, those of his future self. He wished he knew what he was meant to do. If eight years from now, Javier's double had had some sort of plan in traveling back and meddling in his life, so far he couldn't see any benefit to it. He needed information, but all had were _questions_. Here he was, in desperate need of better ammunition to protect him and his partner, but it seemed like all his future self had handed him was enough rope to hang himself with.

"And lastly," Kevin was saying as Javier finally managed to snap out of it. "They were able to identify that weird flower pinned to Zimmerman's lapel."

"Oh yeah?"

"Edelweiss," Kevin said. "Grows in the Alps. Italy, Switzerland—_Germany_. It's supposed to symbolize purity. It's also _not _a common flower for boutonnieres."

Javier thought about that.

"Someone leaving a message, do you think?"

Kevin made a soft 'hmm' of agreement.

"This Reichardt is starting to look like a promising suspect," Kevin said. "If we're lucky, the daughter can tell us more about him."

They'd had plenty of strange cases since Castle had joined them, but a Holocaust survivor for a suspect was still a whole new one on Javier. Still, anyone could hire a killer, regardless of their age, and suffering didn't mean people became immune to committing acts of evil themselves. Sometimes, he knew, it even became a convenient excuse. And he might just go to hell for it, but with the threat that Reichardt posed to them personally—whether he even knew it yet—Javier wasn't about to cut the man any slack.

It took him a moment to collect himself, remember what it was they had been doing. Looking deliberately down at the scrap of note paper Javier dragged up an exaggerated frown, casting a side glance at his partner.

"So, she's in 407, right?"

"Four-oh-_one_, Javi," Kevin grumbled. "Don't get cute. I know for a _fact _you can read my handwriting."

"Not my fault your ones look like sevens," Javier complained with a smirk, the familiar ribbing helping to drive away some of his lingering dread. "And your nines look like little g's."

Kevin's only reply was a faint snort as he approached the apartment. Freeing his badge from his pocket he gave the door a solid knock.

As the door opened, Javier saw that Barbara Zimmerman was a stunning woman—tall, with fine features and clear blue eyes, and light blond hair that fell around her shoulders. Unfortunately, that was as much as Javier could learn about her before everything went to hell. Barbara took one look at him and his partner and her eyes narrowed, lips drawing back from her teeth in an angry grimace. As she started to push the door closed, Kevin put up a hand to halt it.

"Wait, hold on," he was trying to argue.

Javier would have considered that a mistake under most normal circumstances—and this situation, it quickly proved, did not apply.

Barbara lifted her hand, palm out flat towards them. The air..._rippled_... Suddenly Javier's vision blossomed with an explosion of dazed lights as he felt his head impact with the wall behind him, and his legs buckled uselessly underneath him. He slid to the floor. His eyes were watering and his face stung—nearly _everything _hurt—and there was something heavy lying across his legs. He was still blinking irritated tears from his eyes when that something started to move, and as his sight cleared he realized it was Kevin. His partner was the first to get to his feet, drawing his gun as he rose. Barbara was halfway down the hall by then.

"Freeze!"

As Javier watched, Barbara raised her arm again. The air in front of her congealed fluidly just as before, rushing forward in a thick wall. It collided with Kevin and sent him flying backward, sailing seven or eight feet down the length of the hallway to fall in a painful looking heap. By the time Javier managed to get his legs under him, Barbara was long gone, and his thoughts were on his partner.

"Kev, you okay?"

Javier was relieved to see Kevin move, rolling over onto his back. His breathing was rough, like the wind had been knocked out of him. Relieved to see that Kevin was indeed alive and conscious, Javier let his abused joints lower him down onto the rug next to his partner. There was a long, shallow gash decorating Kevin's forehead just below the hairline, blood trickling up into his hair as he remained prone.

"Whoa," Kevin said, eyes blinking dazedly up at the ceiling. "That was... Javi, did that just happen?"

Javier snorted. Despite the aches he felt it was difficult not to find Kevin's confusion a little cute—a thought he would blame squarely on his own head trauma for the time being.

"Yeah, bro. That happened."

Kevin laughed then—wincing, though it didn't stop the laughter from coming.

"What's funny?" Javier asked, honestly not seeing much amusing in getting their asses kicked or how badly this might have screwed their investigation.

"_Dude_," Kevin said, as though it were obvious, "Castle's going to be so _jealous_..."

**(— **  
**=)**

Castle _was _jealous, of course. That much was obvious as Javier watched his partner describe the encounter through the window in Montgomery's office. Between the wide flying gestures and the dopy grin on his face, Javier had to wonder whether Kevin hadn't been lying about not being concussed. He had insisted the cut on his head hadn't needed stitches—Kev could be kind of a basket case about hospitals—but it had taken three butterfly dressings to keep it closed.

"Sir," Javier said, dragging his attention back to the conversation. _Argument_. "I really don't think this is a good idea."

To qualify the statement Javier added, a little belatedly. "Do we really want the Feds stomping all over this?"

"That's really too bad, Detective Esposito," Montgomery said. "You know that local law enforcement has been heavily _encouraged _to involve the FBI in any specials-involved crimes that arise in their jurisdiction until a national policy dealing with the issue can be developed. It may not be mandatory, but I for one am not going to be the man to skirt that recommendation and risk some sort of crisis."

"_Politics_, sir?" Javier accused, a little nastily.

"Politics, Esposito," Montgomery answered evenly, leaning over his desk. "But also _lives_. I'm sure you're aware of how precarious the climate is right now where the topic of specials is concerned. The last thing we need is that balance being thrown by mishandling what I shouldn't have to tell you could be a precedent-making case. So I expect you to deal with it and keep your wounded sense of professional pride in your pants where it belongs."

Javier clenched his jaw against the impulse to correct him. His ego was the last thing on his mind at this moment, and having the captain think that was his concern stung just a little. Still, Javier wasn't ready to explain his reluctance to work with the FBI on this case. As long as he kept his silence he had to be prepared to let others draw their own conclusions.

Javier had a feeling that was a problem he was going to have to get used to.

"And anyway," the captain continued simply, "I already made the call. Fortunately for us, the FBI's Specials Affairs liaison happens to be here in Manhattan. Agents Bennet and Strauss are already on their way."

Javier closed his eyes, hoping at the very least to stop the dread he felt from turning into full blown panic.

"Sir—"

"I'm hope I don't have to tell you to make them feel at home, Detective." Montgomery's tone made it abundantly clear that the discussion was over, even before his short. "Dismissed."

_Bennet_, Javier thought unhappily as he left the office.

This was it, then. _This_ was the case which would land him on Bennet's radar, and eventually under his thumb working specials-involved crimes in Washington. Another piece of the puzzle shifted firmly into place, and Javier could all but feel that noose tightening around his neck. At this point, it was just a question of how much longer he had before the ground beneath him began to tilt.


	4. Chapter Three: Truth of Dare

**Chapter 3: Truth or Dare**

_If you have any answers, We will be glad to provide full and detailed questions. _  
_—Robert Anton Wilson and Robert Shea, Illuminatus!_

* * *

Things had turned busy right after that.

There had been some degree of uncertainty about when the agents would arrive. Until that happened, Kate insisted, the case was still theirs, and they would make as much headway into it as possible. Now, it was past noon, and they knew time was growing short. Javier did his best to pull his weight, but his mind kept straying to a different topic entirely...

As far as he'd been able to turn up over the past two weeks, the DSA didn't exist—_yet_. Still, it was easy for him to see the beginnings of its formation already taking shape.

"Specials-involved" had quickly become the politically neutral term for any activity or situations where specials were acutely concerned, regardless of whether they were the perpetrator or the victim. This early in the game, any sort of bill or agreement from Congress was far too much to hope for. Still, an official response was needed. The federal government's answer, so far, had been the very strong recommendation that law enforcement entities coordinate with the FBI in any specials-involved activity cropping up in their sphere.

Enter Noah Bennet.

Soon after Claire's leap, her father had appeared all over the news in multiple interviews. Though years younger, Javier had easily recognized the man he'd run into in that hallway in Washington. Coverage spun him as a proud, but protective father who had done his best to shelter his daughter from all the threats posed by her circumstances. Javier had found it all rather bland and suspiciously vague. A discreet search of his own hadn't turned up much more, however. As far as he had been able to discover, until only a few years ago, Mr. Bennet had been a traveling sales representative for a small paper manufacturer based out of a nowhere town in Texas. In 2007, Primatech's headquarters had burned to the ground, and the company had seemingly gone belly-up after that.

In 2009, however, Bennet's name had shown up on an out of the way government bank roll. Any information to be had there was shrouded in vagaries and bureaucratic nonsense, and Javier hadn't been able to find out much without calling attention to himself. As best he could learn Mr. Bennet had been engaged as a "civilian consultant" on some kind of domestic op. Thinking back, Javier remembered that was about when the late Senator Petrelli had begun his push against a loosely defined "terrorist" threat based in the States. He remembered the footage leaked to the news of what were supposedly American citizens black-bagged and in custody. Nothing had ever come of the allegations, and Javier never found anything linking it to specials—or Bennet specifically—but he _knew _there was a connection there.

And apparently media attention and a Presidential recommendation had both gone a long way toward winning Noah Bennet's appointment as the FBI's Specials Affairs liaison.

_Specials Affairs_, Javier turned the phrase over in his head, marveling at whatever government goon had cooked it up. It was a no-brainer what the "DSA" stood for.

"Huh. Thought that address looked familiar."

Javier looked away from his screen—Barbara had seemingly been a very good girl prior to her assault on two police officers, with very boring financials—raising an eyebrow at Kevin's comment. His partner had sat back from his own computer with a bemused expression on his face.

"Find something?" Kate asked, her tone almost hopeful.

"Probably not," Kevin admitted as he spun his chair to face the others, "but our case isn't the first murder that building has seen. Back in '06, that same apartment was being rented as a studio by a comic book artist named Isaac Mendez. You know, I used to read his book, _9th Wonders_, which believe it or not was actually about these ordinary people with—"

"Tangent, Ryan." Kate warned, mindful of the clock.

"Sorry," Kevin apologized, moving on. "Anyway, the FBI kept a close lid on things, and I was still in Narcotics, but, you know, you _hear_ things. And it sounded like Mendez was just one in a series of very gruesome murders where the victims were all _beheaded_."

"Huh," Castle said, expression rapt. "It would be a significant change in MO, but are you thinking it could be the same killer?"

"The man who killed Isaac Mendez wouldn't have used a sword."

The new voice drew everyone's attention like a magnet.

Noah Bennet stood in the doorway, browsing through a folder which Javier had to assume were the copies Montgomery had them make of their case. As many times as Javier had glimpsed his face on the television, having the man standing in the same room—in _his _precinct—was another thing entirely. Bennet looked away from the papers in his hand, taking stock of the team with that sharp gaze Javier remembered all too well.

"Agent Bennet," Kate greeted tepidly, rising to meet him. "I'm Detective Kate Beckett."

Bennet shook her hand, with a nod.

"Technically speaking, I'm not a member of the FBI," Bennet corrected, affably, "and therefore not an agent. In fact, I'm afraid I have very little real authority here. For the time being the Bureau wants me to tread lightly. I'm sure your team will be relieved to hear I'm only here in a...supervisory capacity. "

"You mean this is a publicity stunt," Javier commented as he, too, stood.

Bennet's smile was tight, but he gave a slight nod. He turned an appraising eye on Javier. His expression was difficult to read, and those stupid glasses he wore certainly didn't help. Still, somehow Javier felt like he'd already given something away.

"Just so, Detective...?" Bennet offered his hand.

"Esposito," Javier supplied, tersely. "_Javier _Esposito."

He shook the hand firmly, resisting the urge to put more strength into his grip than he needed to. He had decided he wanted Bennet to dislike him, not think he felt threatened. From the corner of his eye, Javier saw Kevin's frown, his partner more than aware he was being unusually disagreeable.

"Right now, Detective, my position is more or less a placeholder. The public needs to feel they're being kept safe from this new...threat," Bennet said, his voice lingering on that last word unhappily. "The wheels are in motion for the development of something with a bit more substance, but as with all things in Washington, seeing that come to fruition will take time."

"Baby steps," Javier observed with a condescending nod.

It was at that moment Castle pushed past him, taking Bennet's hand in both of his in a hearty shake. Whether or not it had been Castle's conscious intent to defuse the situation, it managed to do so rather cleanly.

"Mr. Bennet. I'm Richard Castle. Can I just say how thrilled I am to meet you."

"Castle," Bennet said with a cautious frown. "The writer. Of course. I remember Captain Montgomery mentioned you."

"Listen," Castle asked, lowering his voice slightly, "do you think after this is over, I could ask you—"

"What about the quiet one?" a new voice asked, interrupting. "He's cute."

Kevin turned toward the door and Javier saw his eyes widen. As Javier followed his gaze, he immediately understood why.

The woman who had joined them behind Bennet was tall and classically gorgeous: leggy, with long blonde hair, and despite her professional attire she reminded Javier of a sinful Barbie doll. Perhaps ironically, considering it wasn't the only way in which she seemed familiar. As she stepped forward, toward his partner, Javier found himself wanting to intercept, but a glance had him taking his cue from Bennet. The smug bastard was _smiling_.

"Before we come to any unfortunate misunderstandings, Detective," she said to Kevin, offering her hand. "I'm Tracy Strauss. Bennet's partner."

Kevin looked at the hand for a moment, though whether his hesitation was out of fear or simple nervousness even Javier couldn't guess.

"Uh, Ryan," he managed once he snapped out of it, shaking her hand lightly with a self-conscious grin. "Detective Kevin Ryan."

Ms. Strauss smiled brightly.

"Well," Bennet said finally, "now that we've gotten past introductions, maybe we should get to work."

**(—**  
**=)**

"At least now we know the Mengele connection," Castle said quietly, though it was more a stage whisper than anything.

"Hm?" Kate diverted her attention from Kevin's enthusiastic effort to get Bennet and Ms. Strauss caught up on the case. Once it was clear that the case had become classified as "specials-involved", they'd moved their operation. The team and the two consultants were now operating out of one of the small side offices where, hopefully, they could keep the details clear of prying eyes.

"Twins, Beckett. Well, _triplets_, but still. Mengele was known for his experiments on twins." Castle stopped with a sudden blink. "Or what if they're not really triplets. What if they're clones, like _The Boys from Brazil_?"

"Castle, is this what you spent your time on earlier?"

Castle's sheepish look told her the answer.

"I'm telling you, Kate, the Auschwitz thing has _got _to be more significant than that letter lets on..."

"I'd like to take a look at that letter," Bennet said, looking their way before turning back toward Kevin. "If you don't mind."

Kevin nodded and pulled down the copy of the translation they had tacked to the murder board. Tracy took it gratefully, holding it out so that Bennet could read it over her shoulder as well.

"_Konrad Reichardt is here in Manhattan,_" Tracy read aloud. "_I saw him yesterday. I'm sure it was him. I know I was only a little girl when I last remember seeing him, but I still recognized him. It never seemed fair to me that his animosity toward you should have cost you your position at the company. I had friends there, and I lost them when we were forced to leave. Whatever else I've forgotten, I never forgot that._"

Kate wasn't positive, but she thought she saw Bennet frown.

"_I know you've been content to forget, but now that the world knows about us, we don't have that luxury anymore. My sister's visit should have proved that._" Tracy paused, a guilty expression touching her features briefly before she continued. "_To know where we stand in this new order of things, we have to learn more about what parts you played in its development. Confronting Reichardt may be our only chance to fill in the blanks._"

"_I know there was bad blood between you, but you've always told me it was less personal than it seemed. That it wasn't you that Konrad hated so much as the reminder you served for what he endured at Auschwitz at the hands of Josef Mengele. I know you've admitted to losing sight of ethics in your passion for your work,_" another pause from Tracy, this time with an amused quirk to her mouth, "_but it is an unfair comparison by any stretch of the word. But that was a long time ago, and if we're lucky, he may have put whatever issues he actually had with you behind him. He might be willing to talk to us. Please consider it. Love, Barb._"

"I don't buy it," Javier said suddenly.

It startled Kate slightly, as he hadn't said more than a handful of words since the introductions had ended.

"What about the letter is confusing, Detective Esposito?" Bennet asked.

"It's not the letter that's confusing me, it's _her_," Javier said, nodding toward Tracy, and Kate saw his partner shoot him a concerned look. "The two of you just happened to be in New York, on the day the case is opened, and your partner just _happens _to be related to a key person of interest?"

"It does seem like a remarkably unusual coincidence," Kate reasoned, as soon as she saw what Javier was getting at.

Oddly, Bennet didn't seem to take offense.

"Detectives," Bennet said, "I've worked around specials for more than twenty years, and I've seen some amazing things, but the one thing I _don't _believe in is 'coincidence'."

"They employ a lot of specials at that paper company in Texas?" Javier challenged.

Kate had no idea what he was talking about. Though from his surprised reaction—if one could call it that—Bennet clearly did. He seemed to consider his answer for a short time, when he spoke it was to all of them.

"This information is need-to-know, but since I can already tell it's going to feature highly in this investigation, you obviously need to know it. But it does _not _leave this room." He cast a pointed glance at Castle. "Is that understood?"

Kate and the other two detectives all looked at Castle, who shot them a betrayed glance in return. He held up three fingers in a salute.

"Scouts honor—"

"_Castle_," she warned lightly, aware of the ploy.

"Fine, I _promise_," he said with a huff, taking a seat at the table.

Kate figured she might as well follow suit, and Kevin and Javier followed her lead.

"Primatech Paper," Bennet began, his eyes moving over Javier with a measuring look, "was a front for a private civilian organization founded in the mid-60s with the specific goal of managing specials affairs. It was composed of both specials and standard humans working in the interest of protecting specials from discovery, learning how abilities work, and preventing their abuse. To help distinguish it from it's cover, members of the organization simply called it the Company."

"So, the company Barbara mentions in the letter was _the _Company. Zimmerman worked for you guys," Kevin ventured curiously.

"Yes, though as the letter also mentions his employment was terminated in 1991," Bennet said. He paused then, taking a seat with a pensive frown. "Unfortunately, I was there when Zimmerman was dismissed, and can't recall Reichardt's involvement in that incident. In fact, I don't remember a Konrad Reichardt working for the Company at all."

"So..." Castle asked, sitting back. "Where does this leave the investigation? Is that a dead end?"

"Not entirely," Bennet admitted. "Most of Primatech's files were destroyed in the fire at its main facility. There were backups, but tracking them down would take some time. The year before the fire saw the deaths of all but one of the Company's founders, and after the destruction of the headquarters its resources and remaining agents wound up scattered to the wind. But there is one person who might be able to tell us more about Konrad Reichardt and his connection to the Company, if it exists. In fact, she was the reason I came to Manhattan in the first place."

"Alright," Kate said, regarding her team. "We still need to find Barbara. Castle and I will accompany Mr. Bennet on his visit, see if we can't find out more about Reichardt."

Since Bennet had as much as admitted it was still their case, she left out any room for debate.

"Esposito, Ryan, I want you to check Barbara's place of work, see if she's been back there, find out if anyone knows where she might have gone. The usual drill."

"Right," Kevin said. "If that doesn't turn anything up, I found a hotel room booked under the victim's name. We'll swing by there, and see what we can find."

Kate nodded.

"Tracy, I want you to go along with them," Bennet said to his partner. "If she sees them again, she might run, but if she sees _you_, she might think twice."

**(—**  
**=)**

Before they headed out, Noah took a moment to speak with Tracy alone.

"Keep an eye on them," Noah told her, looking out to the bullpen where the Homicide team was gathering their gear. "Angela didn't give me any details about why I had to be in New York, but I'm sure now this case is it."

"You think she dreamed something?" Tracy said, the importance of that well understood between the two of them. Bennet nodded.

"This is the first real incident we've had since Samuel was arrested," he said, "I don't have to tell you what happens if this goes badly..."

"At least the team seems pretty sharp," Tracy said.

It wasn't like her to be optimistic, and Noah could only agree with her assessment.

"Maybe too sharp," Noah speculated, his eyes following the two male detectives where they waited. "Tracy, I want you to send a text to your nephew. See what he can dig up on this team. In particular, I want to know what he can find about Detective Esposito."


	5. Chapter Four: Phantom Strangers

**Chapter Four: Phantom Strangers**

_"Who controls the past controls the future: who controls the present controls the past."_  
_—George Orwell, 1984_

* * *

As they pulled up in front of a large, opulent house located on the Upper East Side, Richard Castle was on the edge of his seat with excitement. It wasn't every day he was initiated into a real-life conspiracy, after all, and this one had everything he could have _possibly _hoped for.

Though the woman who greeted them at the ornate security door wasn't quite what he had expected—and "greeted" was too strong a word by half.

Angela Petrelli, the last surviving founder of Primatech, was a slight woman in her mid-sixties. She was dressed in dark colors that suited her own coloration supremely well, her dark hair twisted up tidily atop her head. Her eyes were also dark, and while they met Bennet with a degree of fondness, any warmth Castle might have seen was quickly shuttered as she took in his companions. She regarded the writer himself somewhat frostily, briefly, as though he'd been noted and dismissed. When she saw Beckett, though, her eyes widened—just very slightly—and she quickly swept a second look as though she thought she were mistaken. Though she remained composed, he saw her eyes cut to Bennet. Whatever question was in them, the man's answer was the barest tilt of his head. All in the space of a few seconds, and then she blinked and it was almost as though the exchange had never happened.

Castle couldn't begin to interpret what it might have meant, but he filed it away for later. For all he knew, there was telepathy going on here right under their noses...

"It's good to see you, Noah," she said, thin lips pulling in a slight smile, gesturing them into the foyer. "We've had few enough opportunities to speak over this past year. With everything that's happened these last two weeks alone, I find I'm not optimistic about the coming year, either."

"It's been a circus," Bennet confirmed—apparently without irony. Castle noted that her words seemed to cast a solemn concern over his already stoney demeanor.

"It's only bound to get worse, of course," Angela observed acutely as she closed the door behind them. "As I'm certain you'll prove once you introduce your guests and explain their reasons for accompanying you on your visit."

"Of course," Bennet said, lips drawing in an apologetic smile.

"This is Detective Kate Beckett with NYPD and..." He hesitated with faint uncertainty before he settled on an appropriate word, "her colleague Richard Castle. Detective Beckett and her team are investigating the first confirmed specials-involved murder since Samuel's capture."

"I see," Angela said, her head inclined slightly in understanding. She seemed oddly unsurprised. "Perhaps we should sit, then. This may be a long conversation."

She turned around, heading for an open room off to the side of the foyer.

"Now," she asked mildly as they settled into the sitting room. "How does this concern me?"

While he had heard that question from any number of witnesses in his time shadowing Kate and the guys, Castle thought the manner in which she asked it was unusual. Normally, when people were question in connection to a murder, they tried to manufacture distance between themselves and the crime. Angela didn't seem to doubt that she was involved, simply unsure yet as to how. He speculated that her familiarity with Bennet's habits might be the reason, but somehow that didn't quite fit either.

"The victim's name was Jonas Zimmerman," Kate supplied, in answer. "His body was discovered this morning in an empty building in Chelsea. Mr. Bennet explained to us on the way here that the crime scene was part of your company's holdings. We've been told he used to work for you. Is that true?"

Angela raised an inquiring eyebrow at Bennet.

"I felt it was necessary that Detective Beckett and her team be read-in on the Company's past existence and it's goals," Bennet explained. Though he appeared uncertain of her reaction, Angela seemed to accept his judgment and gave a slight nod.

"Dr. Zimmerman was a key figure in Primatech's research division for more than thirty years," Angela said softly with a faint, joyless smile. Castle got the distinct impression Angela would not be amongst Zimmerman's mourners. "And I assume you mean the building on Reed Street. Yes. It was our first headquarters when we began operation, back in 1963."

"I wasn't aware he was back in New York," she added off-handly. "I trust someone has informed his daughter."

"We're still trying to locate Barbara," Kate said, hedging flawlessly. "I know that it's been almost twenty years since Zimmerman was employed by Primatech, but do you recall friction between him and a man named Konrad Reichardt?"

Angela stilled at the sound of the name, looking down into her lap for a brief moment. Almost like a nod. Castle thought the reaction was strange... As if she'd been expecting to hear the name all along.

"That's a name I haven't heard in a long time," Angela said with a smile—faint, but it felt genuine. "You know, I dreamed about Konrad only the other night..."

This time it was Bennet's turn to react peculiarly. Again it was subtle, but her words drew his full attention.

"You know of him, then?" Bennet asked her, intent on her answer.

"Yes," Angela said, looking into Bennet's eyes. "As did you, Noah, at one time."

Bennet, though plainly ill at ease with the missing information, did not seem surprised by the notion. In fact, he relaxed very slightly, and Castle thought that perhaps she had just confirmed something he already suspected.

"Konrad Reichardt joined the Company five years after it was founded," Angela told them, "though his involvement goes earlier than that. He was present at the riot in Greenwich Village, at a bar called Uncle Ira's when the core founders—Deveaux, Linderman, Bishop, and I—first met Kaito Nakamura. And, for better or worse, Konrad was the one who first introduced us to Adam Monroe."

She paused, frowning, her eyes somewhat distant in unhappy memory. Bennet seemed vaguely disturbed himself. The names, of course meant nothing to Beckett or himself, but Castle tucked them away mentally for later.

"He recruited and trained Ivan Spektor and Eric Thompson," Angela continued, "and Konrad and Thompson were the agents who first established the Company's time-tested standard."

"Standard?" Castle asked, finally injecting himself into the conversation. He filed away that name, too...in a mental folder with large red underlined letters. Because seriously, _Ivan Spektor _sounded like the name of a Bond villain.

"Company agents were always paired with an opposite," Bennet answered him, hesitantly. Castle thought he seemed haunted by the _specter _of Ivan's name. "One partner with an ability, and one without. 'One of us, one of them.'"

"Which is which?" Castle asked. He never got an answer, though, before Kate shot him a pointed look.

"Can we stay on topic please?" Kate asked.

Castle lifted his hand as he backed off—figuratively, as he remained sitting next to her.

"If he was so instrumental," Bennet asked, then, "why don't I remember this man?"

Again, Castle thought, Bennet seemed more concerned with the "why" than the "how". Though if, as Bennet claimed, he had really been involved with specials for twenty years, Castle supposed he might already be well acquainted with the "how".

Before she answered, Angela looked down at her hands, which were folded on her lap. She wasn't a woman to let her emotions reign outwardly, Castle already knew that much. He felt the topic must then be the subject of some pain.

"Konrad was the first special known to the Company who displayed the ability to copy the powers of others he'd met," she said. "However, unlike...others we've observed since then, his acquisitions were erratic. Which abilities he would absorb and which he did not were seemingly random. It wasn't until Zimmerman was recruited in 1969 that any connection was made to his emotions."

"And empathic mimic," Bennet observed, thoughtfully.

Bennet was difficult to read, but Castle thought that whatever the phrase meant, the man hadn't liked the sound of it. Though it was merely a guess at this point, Castle thought he understood why. The world at large didn't know much about what specials were truly capable of. So far, only Bennet's daughter and the members of Sullivan's Carnival had stepped out into the spotlight. Desperate to escape the shadow of Samuel's crimes, the latter had put themselves back on display, demonstrating their abilities in hopes of securing the understanding of a curious public. Castle had attended the performance twice. From what he had been able to discover in his enthusiastic research, each special only had one ability. If he understood Angela correctly, that someone's ability might allow them to gain _other _abilities...

Well, that just seemed _unfair_—like wishing for more wishes.

"Yes," Angela confirmed, solemnly, "but a rather broken one. Empaths of any kind tend to be very open, sensitive people. Konrad was very different. Closed off. He'd erected several barriers of dissociation during his time at the work camp at Auschwitz. It made it difficult to form the personal connections which allow any form of empathic ability to function. As a result, his ability was more or less crippled, and he was only able to copy the abilities from a very few of the specials he encountered."

"That makes sense," Kate reasoned sympathetically. "Something as traumatic as being imprisoned in one of those places... You'd have to shut off parts of yourself just to survive."

"I would agree that he was traumatized, Detective," Angela said, gravely. "When his abilities were discovered, he fell under Dr. Mengele's clinical scrutiny, and the experiences left him scarred mentally, if not physically. But Konrad wasn't a prisoner at Auschwitz, I'm afraid. He was a guard."

"Shut the front door!"

Angela and Bennet both shot him a cross look at the outburst, and Kate also looked annoyed.

"Sorry," Castle said, more quietly than was needed. He sat back, listening, trying to reign in his excitement. It was like his birthday had come early this year.

Kate sighed and turned her attention back to Angela.

"You were going to explain why Bennet doesn't remember him," Kate reminded.

"In the early '80s," Angela continued, "we had a case of a special whose ability seemed at first to be some kind of memory erasure. People were coming into contact with this individual, with incidents of burglary and assault reported to the authorities, but the victims soon began to lose their recollection of the crimes. Konrad and his partner, Haram, went to investigate this special, who at the time was nicknamed the Ghost. It took the pair several months of chasing, encounters and near-misses, before they finally caught up with a man in his late thirties. No one knows his name, however, because he was not taken alive."

She paused, releasing a breath, shoulders dipping from the weight of the memory.

"The rest I know both because I read the report and because it was discussed by others within the Company afterward. Later, Konrad and I wrote one another or spoke over the phone, but... I have no first-hand memories of him after that case."

"He absorbed the Ghost's ability," Castle realized swiftly.

"Yes," Angela confirmed. "The ability was eventually classified as 'memory nullification'. It acts on the minds of those around the subject, preventing the formation of long-term memories of the special or their actions. It took Konrad nearly a year to get it under any kind of control, and he was unable to get the ability to shut off entirely. The best he could manage was to lengthen the window of time that memories of him could be retained. Those who met Konrad Reichardt prior to that case kept all of their earlier memories, but if more than a few months went by between their interactions with him, any _new _memories of him would slowly begin to fade."

"I can't even begin to imagine..." Castle said, stunned. "Having people slowly forget they ever _knew _you. I mean, it literally sounds like a nightmare."

Angela regarded him coolly, but gave a slight nod, any ruffled feathers seeming smoothed now that he was taking things seriously.

"But the files should still exist," Kate ventured, hopefully. Castle could tell she was desperate for something concrete. Castle's trade was in stories, after all, but Kate's job required something she could _see_.

Angela tipped her head slightly in thought.

"I'll have to get in touch with Hiro Nakamura," she said finally. "Konrad was a dear friend of his father, and eleven years ago, when Konrad decided to leave the Company, we agreed that his secrets were Kaito's to keep. We removed the files from Primatech and, with a little cleaning up around the edges, after a few months, to all but a few it was as though he'd never existed. If the information exists to help you find him—if he's still out there to be found—it'll be at Yamagato."

They had other questions, of course, but none of the answers seemed ready to bear immediate fruit. Kate took down the details they had gleaned, throughout. Once they were prepared to go, Bennet stopped before they were out door.

"I'll meet you out in the car," he told Kate. "The case interrupted what was meant to be a personal visit, and I'd like a moment to speak with Angela alone. I'll try to keep it brief."

Kate seemed wary, but was apparently unable to come up with an excuse to insist they do otherwise. Once they reached the car where it was parked, Kate looked at Castle with a faint smile.

"Okay, Castle, let me have it."

If she was expecting an "I told you so", they were _so_ on the wrong page. His face split in a grin, and for a moment he was _at a loss_ for words. He honestly thought he might _cry_. He threw out his arms, as though he might hug the universe and tell it '_Thank you_'.

"It's just so... I mean, _really_, it is. Right?" Castle looked at Kate expectantly and saw her roll her eyes, though the smile widened briefly. "Superpowers, conspiracies..._Nazis_? I know it's still a murder, Kate, but this is _officially_ the best case _ever_."

**(—**  
**=)**

As soon as the detective and her companion were out the door, Angela turned to Noah with a curious smile.

"Detective Beckett bears a striking resemblance to your old partner, Hana Gitelman," she observed. "Wouldn't you agree, Noah?"

Noah had been expecting this question. That resemblance had baffled him as well, though he had managed not to show it at the station. Honestly, he wished he had an answer for it.

"I have Micah looking into the backgrounds of the Homicide team," he told her. "He and Wireless had a few interactions. If there's a connection between her and Beckett, I'm sure he'll find it."

Angela nodded approvingly, and seemed to put the topic from her mind for now.

"You said you'd had a dream," Noah reminded, watching her carefully.

He could tell from her solemn reaction to that it had indeed been _that _kind of dream.

"This case," he ventured, once he was sure. "This is why you said I needed to be in New York."

"Yes," she answered softly, her eyes far off.

"I wasn't sure what it meant when I saw Konrad after so many years, but now I know it was about this case..." Angela told him. "In my dream he was in chains. Whether that means he's guilty of Zimmerman's murder or that he's in danger, I don't know. "

Angela looked at him then, gaze filled with a piercing determination.

"Either way," she said, "you _must_ find him. He was an integral part of our history, Noah. And I _know _he's going to be just as essential to our future."

She paused, recomposing herself. Calmer as she looked up at him, she went on.

"That was only a small part of my dream, however," she told him, then, her voice sharp. "Most of it concerned _you_, Noah. It was a dream about the organization you're hoping to create, the one that will take the Company's place."

That drew his focus immediately. Noah had a duty to protect his daughter, and no rash action on Claire's part would ever change that. She might have forced things when she had chosen to reveal her ability in front of all of those cameras, but Noah refused to believe it had taken things out of his hands entirely. It had simply forced to him to alter his tactics.

Despite his misgivings, it was actually proving to be a rather liberating challenge. Where before, with the Company and later the government's project at Building 26, he had been forced to maintain secrecy, now he was forced to use the unwanted attention itself as a tool. The whole world wanted to know about Claire Bennet, and by extension, her family. He was more than capable of putting on the appropriate act, projecting the image of an unassuming salesman and father—after all, hadn't he he'd fooled his own family for years? The media had gleefully latched onto the story of secret struggles, all in the name of keeping his family safe. It was surreal becoming a household name after so many years as a phantom, but the benefits of the intrusion were well worth it.

The President, meanwhile, had found himself in the position of handling the uncertain climate following what many were considering the single most world-altering discovery since nuclear technology.

Thankfully, for all Senator Nathan Petrelli's homeland security project had turned out an utter disaster, Noah's record of service at Building 26 had not been forgotten. Neither, of course, had his role in preventing the President's assassination. Immediately after the assassination attempt, there had been the promise of funding for a new Company, and plans that Noah would be at it's head. Unfortunately, securing that funding had taken longer to arrange. He had allowed himself to become distracted—by Claire's start Georgetown, by his marriage to Sandra falling apart. He had found himself juggling Tracy's rampage, and Hiro's illness, Jeremy Greer and the fallout of Nathan's death.

And by the time they were forced to deal with Samuel Sullivan, they were already set on a collision course with another destiny entirely...

While the President clearly had some faith in him, the FBI director unfortunately saw things differently. He had made it clear to Noah on more than one occasion that illegal vigilante organizations like the Company were little better in his esteem than the mob. And while he retained his promised position at the head of everything, "everything" unfortunately consisted of remarkably little: a small grouping of offices under the thumb of the FBI, a painfully small bankroll under tight scrutiny, a handful of uncatalogued Company documents, and a team that at this point consisted only of Tracy Strauss, her nephew, and himself...

Still, in the past he had made do with much less, he reminded himself, recalling almost fondly his time in Costa Verde. Living in hiding with his family as Noah Butler hadn't been the high point of his life, but he _had _managed to wage war against the Company itself while living as a manager of a Copy Kingdom. Angela had once called him "the man with the plan", and while during his dark tenure at Building 26 Noah hadn't felt he was up to the challenge, he now found himself rising to the occasion.

_Baby steps_, Noah thought to himself, recalling Detective Esposito's words almost smugly, and entirely without the man's sarcasm.

And so, as she outlined her dream of the future, Angela commanded his full and complete attention.

"In this dream, I caught glimpses of the men and women who will play a part in your organization," Angela said. "Their faces were photographs on a string web, the type I've seen made to map time. Konrad's face was among them, as were Suresh, and Matt Parkman. Most of the others were unfamiliar, however. You stood at the center of the web with a dark complected man I've never seen before. He was shaking your hand, though his expression was far from friendly.

"_He _is the man who holds all the strings, Noah," Angela told him carefully, "whether he knows it yet or not, and without him your organization can never be. I don't know how it ties in with Konrad or Zimmerman's murder, only that this case will make your fledgeling agency—or destroy it before it can ever be born."

She paused, considering.

"Normally, I might advise discretion," Angela said finally, "but in the immediate future, I believe trust will be far more valuable than secrets."

Noah nodded faintly as he absorbed the information and her advice. That last was a call he had already made. He frowned, thinking back on his meeting with the detectives at the 12th, and about Javier Esposito in particular. The man had struck him as incredibly hostile, and while he hadn't seen enough to get a proper measure of him, Noah had thought it was oddly unprofessional. Looking back, he thought the reactions of those who _did _know him seemed to support his hunch that the behavior was unusual. And then there had been his unexpected knowledge of Noah's past employment...

It looked as though there was a lot about the detective that didn't add up.

"I might know the man you're speaking of," Noah said thoughtfully, almost certain now that Esposito was the man Angela had seen. Now that he had an inkling of the man's importance, Noah intended to pay close attention, and look into it more closely when the opportunity arose. "Was there anything else?"

Angela hesitated, her shoulders tense. Her mouth was pressed in a bitter line.

"One other image jumped out at me in the course of the dream. A _watch_," she emphasized, pausing significantly. "You know the one I mean."

Noah tensed, fists clenching at his sides before he was even conscious of the reaction.

"Sylar," he managed, jaw clenching when Angela nodded.

"In the dream, the broken watch had been repaired," Angela said, unable to keep a skeptical sneer out of her voice. "I know Peter likes to think he's tamed the beast, but... Please, Noah. Be careful."


	6. Interlude 2—December 1944

_**Konrad & Fritz—Konzentrationslager Auschwitz, Poland; December 1944**_

"_Lächel bitte, Kunz,_" Friedrich Stahl shouted smugly as he saw his friend approach. "_Ich möchte es gern sehen._"

Konrad sighed, breath steaming in the chill air. He obeyed the request, though, drawing down his lip to expose the gap left behind by the two teeth he had lost from his lower jaw. The empty sockets were tender and still seeping, and he couldn't help but run his tongue over them with a grimace. Friedrich_—_Fritz_—_shook his head with a laugh.

"All courage and no caution, as plain as that scar on your face," he said, lapsing into English with a grin. "You know, if you can't stay out of trouble, I wouldn't be so worried about getting cleared to return to combat. You'll only wind up right back here."

Konrad let the comment roll off his back.

Earlier that morning, he and Fritz had managed the transfer of a handful of new prisoners, among them a young woman named Ruth. He had listened with half an ear to the story of the incident back in Berlin, the guards in charge of the transport sharing it eagerly to pass the time. He wasn't the first guard to have suffered the wrath of the woman's hard kick to the jaw—rumor had it she had gotten those strong legs as a dancer before the war. Still, Konrad felt he had been lucky. He had only lost a couple of teeth, after all. From what he had heard, the cocky _Sturmmann _in Berlin had also lost half of his tongue.

"Hopefully next time you'll remember not to drop your guard," Fritz said, running a gloved finger along his own cheek to mimic the shape of the scar on Konrad's left, "and think twice before tangling with the tooth-fairy."

Konrad snorted and ignored him. He was thinking about Ruth, still. A lot of the prisoners he had seen since his own transfer to the camp had given over a part of themselves, had it eaten away by the short, grim lives they now faced. Looking into their eyes, it was almost as though they were already dead and their bodies just hadn't realized it. Many, though, still held on firmly to whatever small scraps of their dignity they could. They were still human, because they refused to let themselves be made anything else.

Ruth had been different, though. There was a fire that had blazed in those dark eyes, unlike any eyes he had seen among the prisoners in this place. It was a fire of fierce pride—of spirit that wasn't simply enduring but that had, despite all she had endured, somehow remained _untouched_. Seeing it had left him chilled...

Konrad couldn't even see that in his own eyes anymore.

"Do you ever think..." he began softly, hesitating. His eyes roamed over the expanse of the camp, and he forced himself to see every bit of it, feel for a moment the horror that would creep in whenever he really let himself think about what they were doing. If he couldn't trust Fritz with the question, there was no one he could. "Do you ever think about how if things were different, it could just as easily be us?"

"It could certainly just as easily be _you_, Kunz," Fritz said, "if any of the officers noticed that wandering eye of yours."

Konrad's words and tone had taken nothing away from his mirth, and in spite of himself Konrad gave a faint laugh.

"I just like to look, Fritz," he said, a faint smile pulling the corner of his mouth as he glanced at his friend. "I like women just fine, and I know better. "

"Anyway, it's just as well you're the only one who _has_ noticed," Konrad continued, lightly, almost playfully, though he was unable to keep the curiosity out of his voice, "since _I'm_the only one here who speaks English well enough to notice the inconsistency of your accent."

Because Friedrich Stahl claimed to be an American _Volksdeutscher_ from Oregon, heeding the call to return and fight for Germany. And most of the time he managed to maintain that story admirably. It was only when he spoke English that he occasionally betrayed himself with a thread of British accent creeping in. Konrad didn't know what reason Stahl might have for lying, or what could possibly motivate an Englishman to join the _SS_. Konrad didn't even know why he hadn't reported his suspicions. And now it had somehow become just another game between them, like their multilingual conversations or sparring off-duty to retrain strength into Konrad's injured shoulder.

"You do have a commendable ear for the King's English, Kunz," Fritz allowed. "I dare say if you ever found yourself in London you yourself might easily pass for...Welsh. Maybe Irish."

Konrad responded to Fritz's smirk by flashing a two-fingered gesture that was in its own way very English.

"Hell, you might even want to consider it," Fritz said, his good humor collapsing with a sigh. "The way this war is turning. We both very well _might_end up in a camp like this very soon, what with America in the war now."

"I knew that pact was a joke," he continued bitterly, real anger seeping into his voice. "Take my advice, Kunz: Never trust the bloody Japanese."

"Do you really think it's that hopeless?" Konrad asked, curious of Fritz's opinion, since they were being so honest.

Fritz didn't answer. His attention had shifted to a group of children being lead across the compound. Or, rather, to the other man who watched them being lead. The _doctor_. Konrad shivered.

"There's something sick about that man," Konrad said quietly. "Why are you so fascinated with him?"

"Have you heard about the work he's doing?" Fritz answered, his voice just as quiet. "Studying anomalies of human heredity, trying to solve the evolutionary puzzle posed to us by Darwin. Imagine the kinds of things he might discover, Kunz. Perhaps your _Übermensch_."

Konrad didn't respond right away.

"He could find the cure for death," Konrad said finally, "it wouldn't matter."

"Back home, my father warned me before I enlisted about the evils he saw in the first war," he continued, gravely. Konrad wished so badly that he'd listened. "And when I first saw combat, I understood what he meant. But I don't care. I can't wait until they put me back on the lines, Fritz. I don't care if I _die."_

"I didn't know what evil _was _until I saw this place. I'd give anything to be able to leave it..."

* * *

**Translations:**  
"_Lächel bitte, Kunz._" - "Smile please, Kunz."

"_Ich möchte es gern sehen._" - "I really want to see it."

_Volksdeutscher_ - an ethnic German from outside of Germany


	7. Chapter Five: Ignorance is Bliss

**Chapter Five: Ignorance is Bliss**

* * *

_From ignorance our comfort flows._  
_The only wretched are the wise. _  
_—__Matthew Prior_

* * *

"I don't care if it's obsolete," Kevin maintained as he exited the car, "two-hundred-billion songs on your phone is _awesome_, but a thousand years from now vinyl will still be cool."

Looking across the roof he saw Javier shaking his head. Lord knew this conversation had taken place at least a dozen times before, but even an old argument was more fun when you had an audience. Especially an appreciative one. It was one of the things Kevin had loved about having Castle join their team. Ms. Strauss, it turned out, was much the same, though her sense of humor held a drier, more sarcastic edge. Kevin had to guess that, with a partner like Bennet, she didn't get the chance for a lot of joking around.

Unfortunately for the three of them, their investigation of Barbara's workplace had turned up little. She hadn't come in to the office that morning. Apparently, she was missed. Most of her co-workers had mistaken Tracy for Barbara at first, and asked if she was alright, coming in so many hours late. They had all seemed quite sympathetic when Tracy told them about the death of "their" father, and how they were still looking for Barbara to give her the sad news. With that sort of climate, Kevin and Javier had needed to keep their questions regarding Barbara's character subtle. As far as they could tell, however, Barbara was apparently quite stable, and very well liked around her place of work. She was sociable, hardworking, and it sounded like she spoke of her father often. Her work desk hadn't yielded them any leads either: no unusual appointments on her calendar, from what her closest neighbor could tell, and none of her things seemed to have been tampered with. Barbara wasn't officially a suspect in their investigation, however, and they weren't quite ready to drag out "assaulting an officer" just yet, so they weren't able to collect her computer for a closer look.

Though Ms. Strauss had seemed oddly certain that they shouldn't worry about that detail.

With that search yielding them a big fat egg in the leads department, that left them Zimmerman's hotel as the next clear task. It was already past three in the afternoon, though, so they had taken fifteen to grab a late-lunch-early-dinner something on the way. The weather was surprisingly mild for the season, their case was _really _interesting, and so far as Kevin was concerned the Specials Affairs people were easily making this the most pleasant instance of shared jurisdiction his career had ever seen. Despite the lingering headache from Barbara's disappearing act, Kevin was in a pretty good mood... It was just a pity Javier didn't seem to be sharing it.

Shaking off his dismay, Kevin tried to put it from his mind, determined not to dwell.

"So, uh, Ms. Strauss..." Kevin began casually, or tried to. Probably he only succeeded in looking over-interested in the drink was still nursing from lunch.

"Tracy, please."

"Tracy," he agreed with a smile. He saw Javier roll his eyes. "I don't know if this is an indelicate question but... If your sister is a special, does that mean that _you_..."

From the way her smile twisted, Kevin guessed she had been expecting the question to come up for some time. Still, the light in her eyes was an amused one, and Kevin didn't think he'd offended her.

"Yes," Tracy answered, frankly. "I have an ability."

Kevin was unable to keep his own smile from broadening into a grin. He must have looked like a total dork, but he honest to God couldn't help it. Thankfully, that didn't seem to insult her either.

"So," Kevin asked, eagerly, awed, "what's your power?"

Tracy tilted her head, expression briefly thoughtful before she reached out a finger, touching the bottom of the paper cup in his hand. Then her mouth pulled into a tight smirk and she turned away, walking toward the hotel. Kevin stared after her a few moments, confused. It wasn't until he took a sip from his straw and got nothing that he realized with a jolt that the contents of the cup had frozen solid.

"_Awesome_..."

When he turned around to see if his partner had caught the exchange, Kevin came up hard against Javier's disapproving look.

"What?" Kevin asked, not seeing his partner's problem. "What's wrong with a little flirting with a woman who's going back to DC after the case anyway?"

Javier's eyes narrowed slightly, though there was a twist of uncertainty in the lines of his forehead.

"I don't know, bro, _Jenny_?"

The reminder was obvious, but Javier's voice was unexpectedly harsh.

"Javi," Kevin defended softly, hurt, "you know I'd never cheat on Jenny."

At least, he had thought Javier knew that. Staring back, Kevin saw the intensity bleed out of Javier's eyes. His partner looked away, drawing in a sharp breath.

"I know that," Javier admitted finally, after an uncomfortable beat had passed. "_I _know, but does Jenny? Do we really want another scene like Natalie Rhodes?"

Kevin bit off a groan, remembering. No, the fit his fiance had thrown at the station hadn't been pretty at all. It still amazed him how such an innocent joke could have come back to haunt him. Kevin had named Natalie Rhodes as part of his "Freebie Five" _years _ago... Long before Castle had arrived and made them second-hand celebrities through his novels, back when it had seemed practically impossible that he and the actress would ever cross paths. The Five had been a _joke_, and Kevin had thought Jenny understood that when he shared it with her. Fast forward to two months ago, when Rhodes had shown up to prepare for her role as Beckett-inspired detective Nikki Heat, and it had still been funny. Right up until Jenny was glaring up at him between closing elevator doors, betrayal on her face.

God, he could have died right there...

"Jenny knows better, now, bro. She trusts me," Kevin insisted, ignoring the skepticism in his partner's eyes. He threw Javier a light smile. "Anyway, _c'mon_. She's got superpowers. How is _that _not cool?"

Javier didn't respond, though he looked like he was turning over possible answers in his head. As though the question were actually important. Even mindful of the weird issues his partner had with the Specials Affairs people, Kevin thought that was kind of ridiculous.

"Aww, is that it?" Kevin eventually joked, hoping to defuse the conversation. "You don't gotta be jealous, man. I still love you."

From the shuttered expression Kevin got in response, somehow it was exactly the wrong thing to say.

Watching his partner disappear into the hotel ahead of him Kevin chucked his frozen drink into the trash with a sigh. Looking back, he knew there had been a time when he could read his partner flawlessly. Kevin remembered those days very clearly. However, a few months ago, for no reason he could readily identify, their partnership had gone suddenly and unmistakably off balance. Things between Javier and himself had become oddly strained, though for the life of him he couldn't figure out what was causing the tension. It had been subtle to start with, and at first Kevin had thought that it might all have been in his head. He would say something, make a suggestion, crack a joke, and Javier would laugh or react almost like he used to... Only it would seem strangely forced.

And Kevin couldn't begin to imagine what it was that could possibly have changed, but obviously _something _had.

As time drew on it had become harder and harder to ignore. Suddenly silences were uncomfortable, and more of their arguments began to hold a genuine edge. Jokes that normally would have been let go without a second thought had become as likely to offend as amuse. They had started to talk less on the job, and spend less time together outside of it. And of course Kevin had wondered whether he might have done something to upset his partner, he might have just _asked_—except Kevin had slowly come to realize that those moments of hesitation, those pauses on Javier's part, often felt almost _guilty_. As if Javier were the one who thought he had done something wrong. Kevin couldn't even begin to understand that. Worse, he hadn't had a clue what he was supposed to do about it. He had become afraid to push—his attempts to get close enough to understand the problem had only seemed to make Javier retreat further away. Unable to fix anything and unwilling to risk driving his partner away entirely, things had hung like that, locked for almost three months in a stalemate of mutual defeat.

It had finally come to a climax only two months ago, changing yet again—for what Kevin hoped was the better.

There was nothing concrete to base it on, but Kevin knew in his gut that the breaking point had been that night almost a week after his proposal to Jenny. The night he had invited Javier out for a drink, just the two of them, and almost been declined save for a spark of concern in his partner's eyes. Javier must have sensed Kevin's desperation. And Kevin never could have imagined that he would feel more nervous about asking Javier to be his best-man than he had about the proposal itself. Before that strange and inexplicable divide had sprung up between them, Kevin had never even thought he would _have_ to ask. But, that night, Kevin had sat across from his partner in the booth at the bar, waiting for the answer and utterly _terrified _that he would say no. Wondering, not for the first time, how had it ever gotten that bad between them.

Javier had watched his face, and whatever his partner seen had finally managed to soften the withdrawn hardness that Kevin had seen in his eyes those past few months.

"_Of course, Kev,_" Javier had said, visibly shaken.

And his voice had sounded oddly surprised, as though he were remembering suddenly something he never should have forgotten.

Things were better after that. It had taken time to fall back into step, but eventually they had, and Javier had finally stopped trying to pull away. It was about a week later that Kevin had found out about the thing with Lanie—which had to have still been fairly new at the time. Javier and the ME simply knew too many of the same people, and the wrong kind for it to stay a secret for long. It was odd, but Kevin had felt almost grateful. Things were finally starting to even out, and if Lanie could keep Javier's mind off of whatever had been eating away at him, that put her amongst Kevin's favorite people in the world.

So things were good again, though they still weren't the same. Their partnership and friendship still held strong even if, like most things repaired, one could still see where it had broken.

This morning the wind had changed yet again. Kevin had felt it strongly, and he _knew_ it was more than just the breakup with Lanie. Javier had seemed fine when they had met up at the station that morning, but at the crime scene he had started acting strange—not just off, but someone-walked-on-my-grave _weird_. And whatever it was that had spooked him, Kevin felt that distance beginning to stretch out between them once again.

Oddly, something about it reminded Kevin of the Racine case.

Even now, Kevin had difficulty imagining what it must have been like, seeing all the ugliness that had surrounded Thornton's death dragged out for them to see. Javier's continuing belief in Ike's innocence had left his partner feeling cornered, threatened—and isolated, though by all rights he shouldn't have, not when Kevin had his back. _That_ part had really killed him. That case more than anything else in the history of their acquaintance had taught Kevin that Javier didn't handle helplessness well. He was the type of guy who needed to feel like he was in control, or capable of gaining control, and learning that Thornton had been _alive_the whole time had struck him badly off-balance. Kevin thought that, in that moment, handling things on his own had been the only way for Javier to reclaim his reality after it had been torn violently from his grip.

What his partner was displaying now was a different distance than before—closer to anxiety, Kevin thought, expectant. Like Javier was waiting for the other shoe to drop. Still, his behavior now mirrored his behavior then in a lot of ways. The snappish, defensive hostility was familiar, though not something his partner had displayed either before the business with Thornton or since. The argument with Montgomery had been noticeably out of character, but Kevin thought that if he had been paying closer attention he might have seen it coming. Something about this case made Javier uneasy, and Kevin thought that maybe involving the Feds threatened the only means his partner had of wielding some control over it. The scene between him and Bennet had born _that _theory out well enough, Javier's unfriendliness a pitch-perfect echo of his interactions with Holliwell during the Internal Affairs probe.

At least Javier's bad temper hadn't fallen on Tracy that strongly. That would have made the afternoon more than a little difficult.

One thing that could be said about Ms. Strauss, she wasn't above using the "hot girl" card in a professional setting. By the time he and Javier met her in at the front desk, she already had the hotel manager wrapped around her little finger. Not that he had a lot of motivation to be uncooperative, but it greased the wheels pleasantly nonetheless.

Zimmerman, it seemed, had booked his room around 1 am the night before his body was found in Chelsea. He had only paid through the next day. Kevin's hunch suggested that probably meant a late arrival in New York, with plans to stay elsewhere in the near future. The victim hadn't been carrying more than his wallet, and a quick search of the room uncovered a single small suitcase—only one change of clothes, loose toiletries, and no razor, books or other odds and ends. Zimmerman had packed light, and probably in a hurry. According to the manager, he had arrived alone—and left alone less than an hour later. Lanie's estimate put the time of death somewhere between 1:30 and 3 am, which seemed in line with the manager's memory so far as they could tell.

Almost nothing in the room had been touched. The sole exception was a pad of hotel stationary, from which a single sheet had been torn out. A set of directions had been jotted down hastily, the pen digging the paper deeply enough that only the right lighting was needed for them to recognize a partial address: _"- A.M. __21- Ree- St. __#7"_. The location of the crime scene was not difficult to recognize. "A.M." seemed to suggest he'd been meant to be there at a specific time.

_Perhaps _meeting_ someone there, _Kevin thought. _Possibly his killer._

His next thought had been to rib Javier—_See? A _lot_ of people write their ones like that_—but his phone rang before he could even start that one. It was Kate. She and Castle had finished their sit-down with Mrs. Petrelli. Apparently, their day had been much more..._enlightening_. He was encouraged to learn that they were waiting on some old Company files. While normally he would be impatient at such a wait, Bennet confirmed that they would in all likelihood contain photos which could be used to ID Reichardt.

Besides that, Kevin thought, they were _bound _to make for an interesting read.

Kevin took out his notepad as Kate filled him in on what they did already know. Despite his focus on capturing the details, Kevin _was_ aware of Javier. Tension had crept into his partner's stance as soon as he realized Kevin was taking down notes, watching with what Kevin could only feel was a quiet _dread_. It was distracting, just then, the concern Kevin felt for his partner. He missed a few words of what Kate was telling him—Kevin wasn't sure how being "forgettable" qualified as a _superpower_—and would have to get clarification on them later.

Kevin got the gist, however. He snapped his phone shut and turned to Javier, who was waiting, visibly anxious, to hear what the others had learned.

"This case just keeps getting freakier and freakier," Kevin said, shaking his head as he reread his notes.

Yeah, they still said the same thing...

"What?" Javier asked.

The nervous edge to his voice would probably have been lost on most people. Kevin wasn't most people.

"Beckett's interview with Mrs. Petrelli confirmed that Zimmerman and Reichardt clashed during their time at the Company," Kevin informed his partner, trying to keep his voice unconcerned. "Reichardt was even the one who sued for Zimmerman's dismissal. Only..."

Javier leaned in, and Kevin decided he couldn't feel sorry for the set up. His partner _needed _this.

"Our suspect _was _at Auschwitz," Kevin told him. "Only it turns out he was a _guard_."

Javier blinked.

"You're kidding me."

"Nope."

"So..." Javier began, faint disbelief in his voice. "Nazis..."

"_And _superpowers," Kevin finished.

Kevin literally _couldn't _have kept the grin off his face any longer, not to save his own life. Javier shut his eyes with a pained groan.

"Castle is going to be _impossible _after this..."

Kevin nodded, patting his partner on the shoulder sympathetically. Behind Javier, his eyes met Tracy's, and her eyebrow raised in a interested expression that, for some reason, had Kevin blushing to his hairline. Javier turned his head, following his gaze.

"Aw, don't stop," Tracy said, the corners of her mouth turning up in a wry smile. "I think it's cute when couples finish each others' sentences."

Just like that, Kevin saw Javier retreat behind his walls again, the way he had at several points during the case.

"Uh, Tracy," Kevin spoke before he knew what he was going to say, which left him silent a few moments as he completed the thought. "Do you think you could work you magic on the manager one more time, see if he's got those security tapes?"

Technically, they had to be thorough, but none of them thought those tapes would lead anywhere. Still, he thought Tracy must have picked up on the changed vibe between them, because she left without question. Turning back around to face his partner, Kevin looked him over for a brief moment, noting the wary shift in his posture.

"Okay, seriously, what?" Kevin finally asked, throwing his arms wide in a helpless gesture.

"'Seriously what' what?" Javier asked, though he looked as if he had a very good idea _exactly _what.

Kevin sighed.

"Look," Kevin said carefully, trying not to make the line of questioning feel like an attack, "don't pretend there's nothing going on. You've been acting weird ever since this case opened. And don't even try to tell me it's Lanie, bro, I can tell something's got you _really _freaked out."

Javier didn't say anything, but he didn't open his mouth to deny it either.

"I mean, you've clearly got some problem you're not talking about," Kevin continued after a while, "but I can't tell if it's a problem with _me_, or the Specials Affairs people, or maybe just the case, because you're sending out all these crazy mixed signals, and if you don't just go ahead and tell me what's up I'm not going to be able to focus on the job."

Kevin paused, then, taking a breath as he looked his partner over carefully.

"And if I can't focus, then Kate will have to kill me," Kevin finished finally, taking a step back to an emotional DefCon 3, "and I know you don't want to be an accomplice to murder, so _spill_."

Javier snorted a faint laugh. It failed to release the tension from his shoulders, but he did manage to look Kevin in the eye.

"C'mon, bro," Kevin coaxed softly, holding onto that eye contact like a lifeline. "You know I've got your back no matter what. Whatever it is, there's no reason you should have to deal with it alone."

Kevin saw the tightness around his partner's eyes—could almost _feel _him hesitating—but finally Javier dipped a shallow nod.

"Okay," Javier said, quietly enough that Kevin almost had to lean in to hear. More than anything else, Javier sounded resigned. "Okay, but it's going to have to wait until we're back at the station. We'll ditch Barbie Two, and then we can have that conversation. Because..."

Javier trailed off, shaking his head with a faint laugh.

"Trust me," Javier said after a few moments. "It's going to be a long, _complicated_ story..."


	8. Interlude 3—December 1944

_**Konrad—Konzentrationslager Auschwitz-Birkenau****,** **Poland; December 1944**_

They had generously administered twice the normal dosage when the procedure first began. Anesthesia wasn't a courtesy the doctor afforded to most of his patients. Konrad, however, wasn't a Jew but a fellow German and therefore deserving of more respect. Of course, whatever respect Konrad was due it didn't extend far enough that he was given a choice. And it certainly hadn't moved the doctor to stop once it became obvious the morphine had worn off.

They had finally gagged him two minutes later.

It had happened on the road coming back from Oswiecim. He had been with a detachment of other soldiers escorting a truck full of supplies back from the town. They had been stopped by the sight of a car halted on the road ahead. Konrad, Fritz and _Sturmmann _Schneider had been sent up to investigate. They had left it to Konrad to question the driver, since he had the best grasp of Polish. Drawing up close to the vehicle, Konrad had seen right away that the man was crying. He never had the chance to find out why, however. As soon as the man noticed him he had lifted his hand from his lap. Konrad barely had time to register the pistol aimed at him before he found himself on his back.

The pain had been intense. Panic—the desperate terror as he struggled to draw breath, tasting copper as he choked on his own blood—had only sped his pulse. And each pump, each strong spurt of blood rushing hot across his chest left him a little colder. The grey sky threatening snow above had been the only view available to him, and he had heard two shots before he saw Fritz and Schneider crowding in on him. The edges of his vision had already started to go black, by then. Schneider's hand had felt very warm against his skin as he tried to keep pressure on the wound. Fritz, strangely, hadn't looked very startled by what was happening. At most, he had merely seemed disappointed.

And then Konrad had felt a tickle in his throat.

He had managed to take a breath, coughing on his own blood for a while before managed to take another. Within a few seconds, the pain had disappeared, and Konrad was left blinking up at his two comrades, their eyes staring, wide with surprise. Schneider had lifted his hand away and backed off very quickly. Fritz had stayed close looking him over with an odd smile before helping him to sit. Konrad, shaken could only stare at him for a few seconds before his stomach clenched, turning just in time to avoid vomiting in his own lap. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand he had gotten his first look at the state of his coat, the grey fabric stained a dark, vivid red. His eyes had been drawn behind him, to the blood still pooled in the damp earth of the road, rich brown mud dyed the color of rust. For several moments he could only stare at it mutely, limbs trembling.

"I don't... How, Fritz?" he had finally managed, the words bringing up the iron taste of blood still clinging to the back of his throat. "_How?_"

And Fritz had clapped a hand on his shoulder, grinning fiercely.

"Breathe, _Br__üderlein_. You're going to be fine," Fritz had reassured him, eyes full of wonder. "It's all going to be fine."

Only it hadn't been fine.

Konrad had endured the drive back to camp in silence, his uniform stiff, painted front and back with dried blood. The others had stared at him the entire time, confused and almost fearful, like they didn't know what he was. Only Fritz had bothered to look him in the eye, answering his uncertainty with an encouraging smile. When they reached the camp, none of them were sure just what had happened on the road. Though, with Konrad looking as he did, they were forced to try and explain themselves. The rest of the day had been spent repeating the story to superiors, who had dissected every part of it that they could. All five of the other men with him had seen Konrad shot. Schneider maintained his story of having watched him bleed out, and Fritz had corroborated it as simply as he could.

And, of course, there was the unmistakable and alarming fact that not only was Konrad alive, but the scar he had worn with pride for more than three years had inexplicably vanished. It was one of the officers who had thought to cut the flesh of his palm, hoping to witness the bizarre miracle for himself. Konrad had stared, as disturbed as any of the rest to watch the lips of the wound seal over before his eyes. For a few moments he could only stare at that hand, like it was some foreign thing that didn't belong to him.

They had been forced to accept his story after that, and he and the others were dismissed. He had headed to the barracks showers almost immediately, aware of each eye that followed him as he went. He had stripped down and showered hastily, not waiting on warm water despite the chill of the season. He remained under the water, shivering, long after he had scrubbed himself clean, trying to forget the feel of his spilled lifeblood, tacky against his skin.

They had caught him as he was leaving. The doctor, it appeared, had laid claim on him. A valuable anomaly, he had termed it. Still buried beneath a numb shock, Konrad hadn't had the strength to resist them.

He had been reassigned to the Birkenau facility. His first days there had passed easily enough, despite the sick confusion that had still churned in his stomach whenever he thought about his _condition_. He had been instructed to cooperate, and Konrad had done his best to endure the scientists' curiosity quietly as they cataloged the changes in him. His scar and the restoration of his lost teeth had been noticed easily enough, but he was also missing his _Blutgruppentätowierung_—the tattoo of his blood-type given at the hospital after he had injured his shoulder. And that shoulder, he had slowly come to realize, which had lately been stiff and near-useless in the mornings no longer distracted him with its dull, enduring ache.

Over the course of a week, however, the tests had swiftly intensified.

Careful at first as they drew their samples, care had become less important as flesh and blood both replenished themselves quickly. Secure in the knowledge that his wounds _would_ heal, they had tried to observe _how_ they healed from different sorts of damage, and so Konrad had reluctantly submitted to having portions of his flesh cut, and punctured, and seared. They had wanted to see how he would respond to the cold, and so he had lain shivering in icy water for over two hours before his mind had succumbed to the lethargy of the cold, and to all appearances frozen to death. _Twice_. His return from the brink of death—or beyond it—had emboldened them further...

Which had led him to this.

An opportunity, the doctor had said, one which could not be dismissed. A unique chance to explore the body amidst its function—_finally_, in a subject who would not become overtaxed by the stresses of observation. The proposal had left him chilled more deeply than the ice ever could. Konrad had heard the rumors, after all—whispers about the things the scientists did with their prisoners out here. Keeping company with Fritz and his rabid interest, it had been impossible to ignore them, though Konrad had never let himself decide whether or not he believed it. Part of him simply hadn't wanted to. Faced with it then, with the naked reality of it more than its immediate threat to him, Konrad had finally refused.

For all the good it had done him.

Three hours in, the sensation of cold metal inside him was still alien and terrifying, though the feel of his flesh trying to close itself around the retractor was slowly becoming an irritation he might endure. It was the other things they were doing that hurt. Pain flared again—not as intense as when they had first broken him open, but enough to draw a soft, high sound out of him despite the leather strap wadded between his teeth. From the beginning he had tried desperately not to watch, not to see what they were doing to him, though he had failed at that several times already. They had removed whole organs, sometimes still attached and functioning to examine them. His heart had still been beating when he had seen them take it away in a beaker. He must have grown a new one since, because he could feel it hammering wildly in his chest.

And the question in his mind had long ago changed from "How am I alive?" to "Why won't I _die_?"

It was strange, in that moment—tied to a table and suffering an inhuman violation of his flesh—that Konrad's mind wandered to Ruth. Or perhaps not all that strange if he thought about it. Even amidst his own pain her eyes bore into his, shining with the haunting mystery of that strange fire, the unmarred piece of her that no one could touch. And as he thought of her, it all seemed to fall away: the exam room, the doctors, the blood and the pain. While he was aware of what was going on around him, it was almost like he was somewhere else, as well. Anywhere else—_everywhere_ he could remember that wasn't _there_.

And, while Mengele and his cohorts continued tinkering with his insides, Konrad was far from Poland, hidden away in a memory: the cluttered but familiar confines of the watch shop in Dresden, where he could watch his father fix broken things...

* * *

******Translations:**  
"_Brüderlein_" - "little brother"  
"_Blutgruppentätowierung_" - "blood group tattoo" (tattoos used by the _SS_ to track soldier's blood types)


	9. Interlude 4—January 1945

_**Konrad & Fritz—Konzentrationslager Auschwitz-Birkenau, Poland; January 1945**_

They had kept him apart from the other prisoners. Konrad wasn't sure how he felt about that.

It was certain in his mind they could only fear him for the aberration of nature that he was, or else detest him for who he had been. Still, whatever abuses he could conceivably have suffered at their hands paled in comparison to what he had already experienced. Given the choice, he thought he would much rather suffer the consequences of deserved hate than spend the time he had to himself contemplating whatever fresh horrors the next day would bring.

It was impossible for him to know how long he had been here. His best guess was at least three weeks, though it could have been longer than a month from the number of times they had come and taken him—taken him _apart_—and put him back. While he was on the table and they were cutting into him Konrad hid in those safe places he had carved out in his mind, and when that happened he lost all track of time. There were times when he had been tempted to stay there, remove himself from the present completely, living in memory and dream until they finally had what they wanted. That temptation grew stronger with each passing day. The only thing that stopped him was the fear that, if he surrendered his grip on reality, he might never find his way back.

Sleep was the only safe escape—safe, for while sometimes their knives would follow him into his dreams, at least there he was sure to wake up.

It was dark when something woke him suddenly. He lay still, waiting, listening. They had never come for him at night before, and for a moment Konrad was terrified that it was happening now. Then there was an echo to the sound that had disturbed his sleep, a sound he only identified hearing it a second time.

A gunshot. It didn't sound far away.

The door swung open a few moments later. Whatever Konrad might have expected to see, it definitely wasn't Friedrich Stahl. Fritz held a pistol in one hand and carried a bag tucked under his arm. As he barged in he quickly hauled Konrad to his feet, shoving the latter into his arms.

"Get dressed, make it quick," Fritz said, an alert eye on the doorway. "And I'd start with the boots, Kunz—because we're going to have to _run_."

In spite of the desperate urgency of his words, it didn't escape Konrad that Fritz had dropped his American accent entirely.

The bag held clothes, as well as a few of his personal effects, Konrad was happy to realize. It also held a gun. His hand shook a little as he checked the clip, slinging the bag over his shoulder. As they exited the building, Konrad saw the bodies of two guards lying in the mud. One man had had his throat slit, a wave of darkness spread over his chest that looked black in the moonlight. The other had been shot twice, once in the stomach, once in the head. The sight inspired a stab of sick surprise, but it wasn't something he was able to think about for long.

The gunshots had brought the attention of the camp down on top of them, and it wasn't long before they were spotted. Konrad was hesitant to open fire on the guards, mindful of the fact that less than a month ago they had been on the same side. These men weren't the enemy—or at least they hadn't been until now. Fritz, however, clearly didn't have the same problem, aiming each shot with a slow, deliberate care that in their present circumstances bordered on recklessness. It wasn't until Fritz stumbled, taking a hit high on his chest that Konrad finally managed to get over his reluctance and return fire.

Konrad took hold of Fritz's jacket and dragged them behind the shelter of a nearby building. In the poor light he could barely make out the outline of the hole against the lighter fabric. Swearing, he pulled the buttons open, peeling the coat back carefully to get a better look. As he exposed the skin beneath his friend's clothes, Konrad's fingers froze in sudden shock.

"Later, Kunz," Fritz admonished playfully, flashing a grin that stood out sharply in the thick shadows, "I'm flattered, but I don't share your proclivities, and now is hardly the _time_..."

Konrad didn't appreciate the joke, but Fritz was right about one thing. They simply didn't have the time to discuss the matter.

It was hours later when Konrad finally got to address it. Hours of running and hiding like animals in whatever hole they could find. Hours of listening for the sounds of soldiers and dogs in the darkness. Hours more of sitting on a damp log, arms curled around him as he waited for the adrenaline jangling through his limbs to ebb before Konrad finally found the words to confront him.

"You healed."

Fritz had turned at the sound of his voice, rough and quiet and confused, among other things. Turned to him with a simple raising of his eyebrow as though waiting for the rest. Konrad was more than ready to give it to him. Angry, he surged up from his seat.

"_Hundesohn_!" He shoved Fritz—_hard_—sending the other man toppling over into the mud, exhausted momentum almost carrying him over after. "You _healed_. Why didn't you say anything?"

And he didn't simply mean tonight. All those confused, terrified hours Konrad had lost questioning and fearing the nameless thing that had changed inside him—the idea that Fritz might have given him an _answer_—that was the real fuel behind his outrage.

"When, Kunz?" Fritz asked, standing up with an irritated expression. "When should I have spoken up? In front of the squad when it first happened? In front of the officers? Maybe you wanted me to step up and volunteer myself when they dragged you off to be carved up like a piece of meat?"

The brutality of that last statement was enough to make Konrad flinch.

"If I'd done any of those things, Konrad, I would never have gotten the chance to rescue you at all, and you know it."

Konrad took a slow breath, letting the anger cool before he turned to ask the question that had haunted his nightmares for more than a month—and of which he still almost feared to learn the answer.

"What— What is happening to me, Fritz? What—what are we?"

"I don't know," Fritz offered regretfully, "not for _certain_, but I do know there are others like us. Not the same, not like we two are, but with great potential. Great power."

Fritz put a reassuring hand on Konrad's shoulder, and for a moment it was in him to shrink away. It must have shown. Fritz took the hand away carefully, backing off to take a seat on the log.

"Ah, but I remember my terror when I stood in your place..." Fritz told him, eyes distant, "and _my _anger at the man who explained my fate to me."

Fritz snorted bitterly, shaking his head.

"_Man_. A child, more like. A foolish child with the power of a god."

And despite his anger, Konrad listened. He listened as Fritz spoke of his birth in England in the mid-17th century, and of his time spent abroad, seeking his fortune. He spoke of his period as a mercenary in feudal Japan, and how his life was changed forever. Fritz told him of his encounter with a man named Hiro Nakamura, and the painful death which soon followed, and Hiro's frightening power over time itself. Fritz spoke bitterly of how Hiro had guided his destiny, only to betray him and steal the woman he loved.

Fritz spoke of the many lives he had led, and of his travels and of the others, strangely endowed with power beyond understanding, whom he had met. Of his fascination with the concept of evolution, once it was eventually conceived, and understanding at last the idea that Hiro had tried to explain to him nearly two centuries ahead of its time. And Konrad felt _he _now understood the interest in Dr. Mengele's research, and when he ventured the observation, Fritz had beamed at him.

"Perhaps there is your answer, Kunz," Fritz said, with a smirk. "Perhaps Mengele found the superman at last. It must sting that he couldn't keep him."

* * *

**Translations:**  
"_Hundeson_" - "son of a bitch"


	10. Chapter Six: Stranger Than Fiction

**Author's Note:** Last week, I posted two chapters, _Interlude 3 _and_ Interlude 4_ so that next week I wouldn't delay the main action of the story for long. I forgot to mention that at the time, so people may have possibly missed one or the other.

* * *

**Chapter Six: Stranger Than Fiction**

* * *

_Yesterday, upon the stair,  
I met a man who wasn't there  
He wasn't there again today  
I wish, I wish he'd go away... _  
—_Hughes Mearns, "Antigonish"_

* * *

Kate ended her call with Kevin, returning to the side-office where Bennet and Castle stood before the murder board, engaged in conversation.

Countless times during their bizarre "partnership", it had been Kate's unfortunate duty to remind Castle that real police work consisted of a great deal of waiting. The task never got any easier. The only thing more distracting than a bored Richard Castle, was a Richard Castle striving manfully not to _be _bored, and right now he was probably the worst she had ever seen him. Fortunately—for Kate, at least—it seemed she might be safe from his pestering for the length of this case. The recipient of that painful honor was Bennet. The agent bore the attention with more dignity than Kate could have ever thought possible. Though, once his impatient glares finally proved useless in deterring the writer's curiosity, Bennet had surrendered to questioning with a stoney resignation.

Kate thought it was almost like watching a kitten attack a table leg and _win_.

"So, what exactly was the retirement plan for Company spooks?" Castle was asking Bennet. "I mean, I'm guessing it was a dangerous job, but if Konrad served in World War II he had to have been almost eighty by the time he left."

"True," Bennet acknowledged, though he seemed oddly reluctant, "but its possible he might not look it."

"What do you mean?" Castle asked, leaning against the table.

"There was a man who worked with the Company," Bennet answered slowly, "a special named Adam Monroe. You'll remember Angela mentioning that Reichardt was the one who introduced him to the founders in the first place."

Castle nodded. Bennet hesitated, though he seemed to come to his decision quickly—if not without a bit of regret, Kate thought.

"Adam's ability was similar to my daughter's," Bennet continued, making plain the reason for his guarded reluctance. "While it hasn't been made known publicly, one consequence of accelerated cellular regeneration is that, at a certain point, the aging process stops."

"So, you're saying they're basically immortal?" Castle asked, with an expression of naked fascination.

"Not...entirely," Bennet said. "Adam Monroe was killed by another special in 2007. But he was close to four-hundred years old when he died."

Castle stared, and Kate found herself stunned by the idea as well.

"So, with his mimicry whatsists," Castle reasoned, plowing ahead, "depending on when Konrad met Adam, he could...really look just about any age?"

"I'm afraid so," Bennet confirmed, tossing Kate a sympathetic look as he noticed her. "I know that basically puts us back at square one as far as making an ID. I should have thought to ask Angela, but I didn't want to push her further. Still, the files _should _help us out on that front."

"These files are coming from Japan, you said? That's gonna take a while," Castle said, not quite _impatiently_, but honestly. "I just don't know how much longer I can stand to wait."

The corner of Bennet's mouth lifted in a faint expression...what Kate thought might have been a playful smirk.

"I wouldn't be surprised if it was sooner than you think," Bennet said, simply.

Before she could ask him to elaborate, Kate heard a commotion out in the hall. The sounds also caught Bennet's attention. The two of them were out of the office in a flash. As they reached the bullpen, Kate saw the center of the activity was a short Asian man in his early thirties—surrounded by a number of officers with weapons drawn. Kate couldn't immediately see anything threatening about him. Indeed, behind his glasses the man looked terrified, his arms raised high over his head. Beside her, Kate heard Bennet mutter under his breath.

"_Uwasa o sureba kage_."

Then, raising his voice, Bennet called out in English. "Stand down!"

A few of the officers turned to look at him, their eyes roaming questioningly to Kate. Hoping Bennet knew what he was doing, she nodded.

"Do as he says," she confirmed, looking to one of the officers as they complied. "Someone want to tell me what's going on here?"

"This guy just showed up out of nowhere," one officer explained, his face was pale and he seemed shaken. "_Literally _out of nowhere."

"And I missed it?" Castle said mournfully as he caught up behind them. "I always miss it..."

Kate ignored him, looking to Bennet.

"Is he who we've been expecting?"

Bennet nodded.

"Though as usual, Hiro makes a mockery of expectations."

There was irritation in Bennet's voice, but no real bite to it.

The man—Hiro—still held his hands up high, even as the police surrounding him reluctantly dispersed. As Bennet approached, he finally lowered them, round-cheeked face splitting in a friendly smile.

"Mr. Bennet-_san_," he greeted the ex-agent, dipping a quick bow. As he stood again, he shoved the glasses back up on his nose in a practice motion. "Mrs. Petrelli ask me to bring you my father's files. It sound important, so I come right away."

He paused, glancing around the bullpen warily, a guilty expression on his face.

"I am sorry," Hiro offered apologetically, enunciating the words carefully. "I did not mean to cause trouble."

"I understand, Hiro," Bennet accepted, "but next time think about it before you just show up in the middle of a police station... At the very least, call ahead."

Hiro nodded, very seriously. He then looked curiously toward Beckett and Castle.

"Detective Beckett, this is Hiro Nakamura, son of one of the Company's late founders," Bennet offered by way of introduction. "Hiro, this is Detective Kate Beckett and her colleague Richard Castle."

Hiro repeated his bow, returning his glasses to their spot on the bridge of his nose. True to form, Castle stepped forward, taking Hiro's hand in a firm grasp.

"So," the writer asked eagerly, "your power, you like teleport or something?"

Hiro gave a startled blink before he bobbed his head in a quick nod that was almost another bow.

"_Hai_," he answered carefully. "I bend time and space."

Castle stared at the man for a long moment with an awed expression, still holding the hand in front of him like he didn't want to let go.

"That is so _cool_," Castle managed finally, mouth pulling in an open grin. Hiro, though obviously a little overwhelmed by the attention, returned a small smile with a duck of his head.

"Are you sure you have the right files?" Bennet asked, looking over the stack of boxes sitting on the floor nearby. There must have been six or seven, each marked with a yellow-on-brown Primatech logo.

"_Hai_," Hiro answered with a definite nod. "Mrs. Petrelli tell me to find my father's private files about Konrad-_ojisan_."

Bennet frowned. Kate thought he seemed a little startled by the address.

"You remember him?" Bennet asked uncertainly.

"No. But my father spoke of him many times," Hiro answered with a regretful frown. "I used to have picture of him. When I was little, I come to New York with my father, and we saw baseball game together."

He smiled wistfully, eyes saddened.

"I remember the game, but I do not remember him. When I ask my father why his friend never visit, he always looked very sad." He paused, turning to Bennet. "He was...special, yes?"

Bennet nodded.

"Mrs. Petrelli say you try to find him," Hiro offered hopefully. "I can help?"

Kate was still trying to compose a polite refusal when Bennet spoke.

"He might be able to help identify Konrad if we find a photograph," Bennet reasoned as he opened the lid of one of the boxes—and it was a fair point she had to admit. Looking inside he nodded with a satisfied smile. "Kaito's ability gave him a talent for anticipating events."

Bennet lifted an envelope that had been sitting on top of the files, holding it up where they could see it. There was writing scrawled across it, and Hiro's eyes lit with faint surprise.

"It is to me," Hiro told the detectives, voice small. "From my father."

He reached out for the envelope, which Bennet gave him, though Hiro's eyes moved to Kate for permission.

She hesitated for a moment. It was more than a little irregular, but she was already beginning to understand that irregularity was going to be the watchword for this case in general. She didn't even want to think about how the unusual "delivery" of the files effected chain-of-evidence. Given that they had already been in Mr. Nakamura's possession, she supposed any difficulties his assistance might cause were relatively minor by comparison. And, of course, she could imagine how she would have felt if someone had found a letter to her among her mother's things and refused to let her read it. She gave a slight nod. Hiro opened the envelope carefully.

Hiro wasn't asked to read it out loud, but he did them the favor nonetheless, translating to the best of his ability.

"It says, '_Hiro_._ If you read this then you have found my hidden files. If so, then probably I am dead. With this letter I entrust you with a important secret that I am sure have outlived me, and ask you guard it with faith also as I did. I told you many times of my good friend Konrad Reichardt, who was to you like an uncle. I know you do not remember him, but it is so. As much as I tell you, there is more I did not, and that you need to know to keep safe what I have left to you_.'"

As Hiro recited the letter, Bennet occasionally lent a hand to bridge the translation, and between the two of them, a clear picture of Reichardt's involvement with the Company began to form.

Kaito's father had died in 1963, and custodianship of his family's legacy had fallen into his hands. Seeking to flee the responsibility, he had come to New York City, only to run headlong into his destiny in a very different fashion. Specials often found themselves drawn together by strange events in which others like them were involved, though the mechanism of whatever force connected them was little understood. The Greenwich Coffeehouse riots were only one such incident of which he was aware, but it had been a critical formative moment for the Company.

After the special who had instigated the violence had been shot by police, the club—Uncle Ira's—had erupted into chaos. With the telepath Charles Deveaux temporarily removed from the action and knowing almost no English to communicate with the others without him, Kaito could only watch in helpless horror at the further chaos that had unfolded. In an odd way that had been fortunate, otherwise he might never have seen one man's face opened by a broken bottle—or noticed the way the flesh had closed over almost before it had a chance to bleed.

Kaito had attempted to tell Linderman—for he had known for certain that Linderman was like him from the moment the young man had begun using his ability to heal those injured in the riots—but these efforts had fallen flat. It wasn't until long after, once Charles had recovered, that Kaito had been able to bring the man's presence to the attention of the others. Together, Kaito and Charles had gone to great lengths to track him down. And while Charles' ability had proved essential in finding the man, Kaito had been pleasantly surprised to discover his friend's presence as a translator had not been needed.

Konrad had been quite wary of the two men, at first. Later, as they had grown into each others' confidence, Kaito would come to learn that Konrad wasn't a man who trusted lightly. And that it was with good reason that he socarefully guarded his past...

Konrad Reichardt had been born in Dresden, Germany in the early '20s, though his story, as far as Kaito felt it need concern anyone, had really begun in 1944. It was in that year that he had suffered a combat injury on the Eastern Front and after a brief hospitalization been transferred to guard duty at Auschwitz to complete his recovery. It was during this time that a peculiar incident had seen the first manifestation of his regenerative ability. His sudden and inexplicable recovery from what should have been a mortal wound had prompted the rabid attention of the camp's researchers. Kaito chose to divulge few details to his son, but repeated Konrad's own words that his own usage had been only the least among an uncountable number of cruel and obscene acts performed there.

Konrad had eventually been rescued by a fellow guard by the name of Friedrich Stahl, a man who he had soon learned was far more than he seemed, and appeared to share the same gift. The two had fled, reaching Dresden only days prior to it's bombing. Konrad had been undone by the loss of his family and the destruction of all he knew, and Stahl had used the confusion in the aftermath of the bombing to hide them amongst a group of Allied POWs being held in the city. Under the assumed identities of British soldiers, the pair had managed to escape to England, later traveling to Canada and then the United States.

Konrad had left two lives behind him by the time he and Kaito crossed paths in 1963, and had been unwilling to abandon his third in order to join the Company. He had, however, been more than happy to make introductions to Stahl—whom the budding Company had come to know under the name Adam Monroe.

Hiro, who had grown sad learning these things about his "uncle", paused at the mention of the name.

"Adam Monroe...was a very _bad _man," he informed them, a complex grief transcribed clearly through the simple words.

It had taken another five years—once his contemporary life had forcibly ended—before Konrad eventually joined their number. When Zimmerman had been recruited only a year later, the scientist's enthusiasm for what Konrad's uniquely multifaceted ability might be able to teach them had given rise to the first of many conflicts in their professional acquaintance. Their enmity had later been cemented in 1974 in a clash over the doctor's medical ethics, and his administration of an experimental formula to three infant girls—a pertinent detail Kate filed away safely for later.

In 1977, Konrad had helped Kaito uncover Adam's plot to unleash a virulent biological weapon, for which the latter immortal had ultimately been imprisoned. In 1984, Konrad had absorbed the Ghost's ability. As well as leaving him isolated, the event had left him unsuitable for work with a partner, and almost useless in the training new agents—facts to which Kaito attributed a growing depression. When Hiro's mother died in 1990, Kaito had found it difficult to maintain his devotion to the Company, and without her as his compass let certain things slip. In that same year, Konrad's former partner, Haram, had "retired" from the Company under mysterious circumstances. Though an actual friendship between the two had been made difficult by his condition, Haram's last partner, "Claude Raines", had been suspicious of the disappearance as well.

A year later, Zimmerman had encouraged core founder Bob Bishop to allow experimentation on his daughter's ability, and in the aftermath of that disaster, Konrad had petitioned for the doctor's dismissal. Brief mention was made of a boy named "Rene", who had removed the specifics of their time with the Company from Zimmerman and Barbara's memories. Kaito had left the Company in 1993, choosing to focus on his own corporation, Yamagato. However, he had kept in close contact with Konrad whenever possible, hoping to prevent the most recent memories from slipping away.

Kaito mentioned a visit in 1997, when Konrad had come to Japan to discuss his misgivings over a file that had crossed his desk. Hana Gitelman, a special being considered for recruitment, had born a strong resemblance to a woman he had encountered at Auschwitz. Konrad's personal investigation had confirmed that Hana was the granddaughter of Ruth Meisner, whom he had long suspected as the source of one of his acquired abilities. With this sudden reminder of his past, the Company's practice of bagging-and-tagging had begun to weight on his conscience—a fact he had shared with Kaito.

The final nail had come in 1999, when Konrad had utilized Kaito's own ability to predict that Claude's continued disillusionment with the Company would result in his execution at the hands of his partner. Konrad had warned Claude, who had chosen to see how it would play out. Afterward, Konrad had left, taking the time only to say his goodbyes to the incarcerated Adam, to Angela and to Kaito himself. Between them, Kaito and Angela had made the decision to slowly remove all files mentioning Konrad from the Company's archive, with Rene providing the few final touches needed to effect his complete his erasure from memory.

In the last words of his letter, Kaito relayed his hopes that his friend might somehow have found a measure of peace his life had so far denied him.

It was an incredible story, in every possible meaning of the word. They were all left processing the details in a stunned silence. Even Bennet seemed mildly taken aback—even _Castle_oddly subdued. Hiro was left standing as though he didn't know what to do with himself, shuffling the pages awkwardly in his hands. Though, as a small stiff paper fluttered out of his grasp, he was the first to break the silence.

"_Kiteretsu__!_" Hiro exclaimed cheerily, drawing their attention. He retrieved the paper from the floor, answering their stares with a pleased smile. "I find picture."

Perhaps predictably, Castle was the first to recover in the face of Hiro's discovery.

"I can't wait to see what this guy looks like," he said, leaning in eagerly behind Hiro to get a peek at the photograph, "What if he has an eyepatch? Or a scar! Or—"

He cut off suddenly, the eager expression melting away abruptly into one of complete surprise. At the change Kate crowded in, dying to know what could have possibly rendered the writer so effectively speechless. What she saw left her numb with confused shock.

"Oh my God..."

* * *

**Translations:**

"_Uwasa o sureba kage_." - Lit. "Gossip (about someone) and their shadow (appears)." ("Speak of the devil and he appears.")

_ojisan_ - uncle


	11. Chapter Seven: The Other Shoe

**Chapter Seven: The Other Shoe**

* * *

_Feeling paranoid? Good: illumination is on the other side of absolute terror. And the only terror that is truly absolute is the horror of realizing that you can't believe anything you've ever been told.  
—Robert Anton Wilson and Robert Shea, Illuminatus!_

* * *

Javier had spent almost the entire trip back trying to find a way out of the conversation he had promised his partner. So far, his ideas had all fallen painfully short. The closer they got to their destination, the closer they were to that looming talk, and the more anxious he got. By the time they stepped out of the elevator at the precinct Javier didn't think he had ever been more nervous about a single thing in his life.

A part of him still held on to the fear that Kevin wouldn't believe him. That was an old fear, however. An obsolete fear, a throwback emotion to a world that used to make _sense_. Even if that sense had always been an illusion. No, Kevin _would_ believe him. And, in so many ways, Javier thought that made it worse... Time travel or not, you did not tell a man who was happily engaged that you didn't think it was going to work out. You did not tell your _best friend _that you though you kind of ended up together. Not if you wanted to keep that friend.

His stomach was a roiling mess by the time they rejoined the others in the side office. How had he _ever _thought eating was a good idea?

Something about the atmosphere in the room struck him as wrong almost immediately. Quiet wasn't something Javier was used to walking in on when he and Kevin returned to the station. Kate and Castle were almost always arguing about something when they did, or else Kate was occupied with something important, leaving Castle to roam free. His curious and often restless nature usually meant the writer would find his own trouble somewhere, poking around at things he generally shouldn't.

And, as he took in the scene in front of him, the first wrong thing that Javier managed to put his finger on was Castle. Seeing the writer so still was just blatantly unnatural...

"Why is it so quiet in here?" Kevin asked, a concerned crease marring his features as he clearly picked up on the same thing.

As he spoke, every face turned to look at them. Castle and Kate both wore near-identical expressions of surprise, though there was an odd wariness, too, that Javier didn't quite know how to read. Bennet's face was almost entirely blank. A glance at Tracy saw her raise an eyebrow, but even that yielded no response from him. In the corner a small Asian man that Javier didn't recognize stood up straight, staring with some confusing emotion that his mind could only manage to interpret as wonder.

"We found a photograph of Reichardt," Kate told them after a long moment, her voice holding an odd, careful tone Javier thought he had heard her use more than once.

Usually when breaking terrible news to the families of victims.

Javier's heart had started to pound before he even made that connection, as if some more primitive portion of his brain were already several steps ahead of him, crying out a warning. And, as Kate slid the photograph across the table for them to see, the warning Javier thought he heard, echoing vainly in the back of his mind, was _look away_.

The photo was obviously very old, its black and white image stained a dull yellow with age. The words "_Auschwitz, 1944_" had been scrawled across the border in faded black ink. In the picture, two men posed side by side, both dressed in uniform. Though the image was small and somewhat faded, and the background somewhat difficult to discern, the foreground was still sharp and even the small detail of their insignia was easily recognizable. Of the two men, one was slender and obviously light haired, directing a bright smile toward the camera. The second man was younger, possibly in his early twenties. His expression was far more subdued, the smile fragile and a little forced. Seeing him, Javier's breath stalled in his throat...

There was a stuttering moment where his mind refused to believe what his eyes were telling him. A moment where he tried to attribute the recognition to a trick of the light or some other mistake. But nothing he came up with ultimately altered what he saw. Impossibly, if not for the photograph's obvious age and the twisted scar marring that second man's face―and every other detail of the image, grotesquely and unforgivably _wrong_―Javier would have sworn to anyone that he was looking at a picture of his partner.

Javier turned to look at him, finding Kevin just as shocked as he was. _More_. Kevin's eyes were locked on the photograph in front of them, disbelieving, mouth hanging open slightly. He shook his head faintly, lips moving without sound as he wrestled to find his voice.

"How...?" Kevin finally managed, breathless as the words stumbled over each other. "I don't― Just..._how_?"

Kate watched his face very carefully. Taking in his confusion, her expression softened.

"Ryan," she asked, her voice even, quiet, calm, like she was afraid to spook him, "is it possible that you and Reichardt are related?"

It took so long for Kevin to respond that for a moment Javier wondered if he had even heard the question. His forehead creased briefly, followed by a series of rapid blinks before he shook his head.

"I don't see how..." He trailed off, wetting his lips. "I took after my mom. She took after _her_ dad, and he never looked _that _much like me."

Kevin's voice was oddly distant. Or perhaps it simply sounded that way.

For Javier, their conversation fell into the background as he found himself looking at the photograph once again, eyes lingering on a single, bizarre detail. Suddenly, pieces of the future that had been shapeless in their mystery began to make a surreal sort of sense… The way the intervening years had left his partner almost untouched. The endearment Kevin had spoken, only half-remembered. The uncharacteristic bitterness Javier had heard in Kevin's voice when DiNozzo mentioned Reichardt's name...

His stomach gave a sick lurch as Javier finally understood why his future self hadn't bothered to give him any information on this case, despite what it might mean for Kevin. If what he suspected were true, it would have been beyond Javier's power to change. The only impact he could have on the situation now hinged on his decision to speak or to stay silent, and in spite of the damage it would cause Javier knew he wouldn't be able to stop himself. On the heels of that realization Javier finally understood the words his partner had spoken in that strange vision months ago—what Kevin would remember about this day years from now. An interpretation of his words that Javier had never imagined might be true...

Reichardt wasn't the one poised to destroy Kevin's life. _Javier _was.

"Kev..." Javier's throat was dry, tight, the sound of his voice so odd to his own ears that it could almost have belonged to someone else. "This looks like your handwriting."

And it did. It wasn't identical, but then one could hardly have expected it to be, not after so many years. But Javier looked at his partner's chicken scratch every day. After all their time working together, Javier could practically read it in his sleep―less of an exaggeration than most would believe, as more than one sleep-walking session through a rough case had proven. Javier knew those jagged flourishes, those sloped ones and goofy nines―and he _knew _he wasn't wrong.

At first Kevin only stared at the image, shaking his head silently―though Javier noticed that he didn't deny the observation―before he woke out of his daze with a harsh blink.

"That's not me," Kevin said, voice flat, like whatever he was feeling hadn't yet caught up with what Javier's words implied. He took a step back from the photo, eyes pulled away from it with a sharp jerk of his head. "It's _not _me."

His gaze only fled as far as Javier's face. Javier didn't even know what his own eyes might have shown. Whatever it was couldn't have been pleasant, because the expression that soon answered it―confusion, hurt, _betrayal―_was painful to see.

"Javi... This is― I don't know _what_ this is. A trick, or..._something_," Kevin argued, desperately, gesturing loosely toward the picture he was still so carefully trying not to look at. "You really can't think that's _me_?"

Javier had almost forgotten there was anyone else involved in this until Bennet made a soft noise in his throat. As quiet as it was, it drew Javier's attention sharply. The expression on the older man's face was thoughtful.

"The Company files should contain both fingerprint and DNA profiles," Bennet ventured evenly. "We can try to make a comparison."

Though it was a logical enough response to such an illogical situation, apparently, for Kevin, it was just too much. When Bennet moved toward the door Kevin's eyes flew wide, and Javier watched his partner's anxiety slip into outright panic―only seconds too late to realize that Kevin had drawn his gun.

"Don't..." Kevin said. His voice and his hand both shook.

The focus of the entire room narrowed precariously upon his partner. Kate stood rigidly, her hand resting on her gun as she watched Kevin and Bennet both. She didn't draw, and Javier saw the uncertainty dancing in her eyes. Tracy's pose held a similar alertness. Though Javier didn't think she was armed, her hands hung ready at her sides, and while the room was warm her breath misted faintly. Castle's expression was one of helpless alarm, and the strange man had shrunk back into his corner, eyes lit almost comically with horror. Bennet for his part had halted, raising his hands level with his shoulders. Despite the gun aimed his way and the visible desperation of the man aiming it, he seemed unusually calm. Javier saw Bennet's glance cast briefly his way, as though curious to see his response.

As though Bennet saw as well as he did that the safe resolution of the stand off rested solely in Javier's hands.

"Kev." As he moved slowly in front of the gun, Javier tried not to think about Bennet standing behind him. "We'll figure this out, Kev, but right now you're making Castle nervous. C'mon. Give me the gun."

Kevin's eyes darted to Castle and Kate, taking in their tense postures, and Javier saw his partner hesitate, forehead knotting fretfully. When his attention returned Javier let his eyes dip briefly to the gun, lifting his eyebrows faintly. Kevin nodded, breathing a little ragged as he lowed the gun, turning the handle out toward him. Javier took it, ejecting the clip and setting it on the table beside him. Kevin pulled in a shaky breath, running a hand over his face. It stayed there, pressed over his mouth. Muffled beneath it, his voice was small as his denials began to flow once more, like helium leaking from a balloon.

"It's not me. I _swear_. I'm not..."

Javier rested a hand lightly on his partner's shoulder, catching his eye and holding onto that contact desperately.

"We'll figure it out," Javier echoed himself, sounding certain.

And Javier believed those words—he _had_ to—but Christ he just wished he knew _how_.

Javier felt Kevin sway just slightly under his touch, and quickly steered him toward a chair. Javier gave the shoulder a light squeeze before he turned his head to look towards Kate. She had relaxed somewhat, as had most of the others once his partner had been disarmed. Javier shot her a silent plea which she must have understood, because soon she had ushered the others out of the room.

It took Javier a while to get Kevin calmed down. What that translated to was a silent mode of tightly-wound panic that was almost perfectly still apart from the foot hammering restlessly under the table. Meanwhile, Javier's brain was having difficulty catching up with his gut. Even though he had been the one to make the connection, the idea that Kevin and their suspect could be the same person was difficult to get his head around. It sounded insane, and he wanted to say it was too impossible to be true, but Javier had been forced to accept too many strange things as part of his reality to discount it completely.

Still, he found his rational mind trying to deconstruct it.

Javier had been there when Kevin found Barbara's letter. If Kevin really _was _Reichardt, then he should have been able to understand it, shouldn't he? But Javier had watched Kevin skim that letter, and he hadn't seen even a whisper of recognition. Kevin had been in the perfect position throughout to steer the case away from himself—or bolt if he feared exposure. And right now, the confusion and fear he felt radiating off his partner were so palpable that Javier refused to believe they could possibly be a lie.

Kevin was staring at the surface of the table, unmoving except for the excited rhythm of his foot. The photograph had been left behind on the table, but Kevin had turned it face down minutes ago. He had been reluctant to touch it at first, but in the end he just hadn't seemed able to stand looking at it any longer. Even with his own experiences, Javier couldn't begin to imagine what his partner was feeling right now, how terrifying it must be having everyone doubt him like this.

Even worse if he was doubting himself.

Kevin looked...so _lost_. Javier's touch had helped to ground him earlier, and he found himself wanting to reach out again―to give Kevin something solid to hold on to. Javier was almost paralyzed by the indecision he felt about that impulse, mistrusting it. Afraid to have Kevin think he was staring, Javier had kept most of his attention on the door, waiting for the results that would bring an end to this bizarre state of limbo...

Something in the room changed abruptly. It took Javier a moment to realize that Kevin's foot had stopped. His partner breathed out slowly, dragging fingers raggedly through his hair.

"I don't _know _anything about this Reichardt guy," Kevin said, voice so small, but in its own way deafening after his silence. His eyes still stared at nothing. "Javi, even if I—"

Kevin stopped, silent for a moment, dazed, his face flashing with a sort of blank panic.

"Even if there _is_ a connection..._somehow_," he eventually managed, "I just... I don't know."

And Javier couldn't stop himself from putting a hand on his partner's arm, then. Kevin met his eye for the first time since the others had left, looking at him with an uncertain, searching intensity that made Javier slightly uncomfortable. Like Kevin was looking at the only thing in the world that he was still sure of.

"I believe you," Javier said, softly.

It wasn't a lie. Whatever the connection between Kevin and their suspect ultimately turned out to be, Javier _did_ believe him. He had to. Because if Kevin had managed to deceive him the entire time they had worked together, then Javier really didn't know this man at all.


	12. Chapter Eight: The Ryan Report

**Chapter Eight: The Ryan Report**

* * *

_"How often have I said to you that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth?"_  
—_Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, The Sign of the Four_

* * *

"I kept my search as discreet as I could," Lanie told them. "My first analysis _does _appear to confirm a match between Reichardt's DNA profile and the one we have on record for Detective Ryan. Not a familial relation, but an exact match."

Crammed into Montgomery's office, the captain, Kate, Castle, and the liaison team all listened intently as the ME delivered her findings. There hadn't been time to read Lanie in on much of the information recently discovered in the investigation, and Kate could see the questions burning in her friend's eyes that the answers she was providing had put there. And there still wasn't time to lay them to rest, unfortunately, as the answers simply begged more questions.

"The fingerprints I was given were also a match," Lanie added.

"I'm afraid this puts a hole in your theory, Mr. Castle," Bennet told the writer in a low aside. "Genetic clones rarely share fingerprints. While projected clones often do, they normally aren't stable enough to persist on their own for an extended period of time."

Somewhat dazed, Castle gave a long blink before he responded.

"I'm still surprised you took it seriously..." Castle said, bewildered.

"Anything else?" Montgomery asked, ignoring the exchange.

The captain had been doing an admirable job of following the convoluted thread of the case without undo argument so far, but now he almost seemed afraid of the answer. From the way Lanie hesitated, his fears weren't entirely unfounded.

"In the interests of being thorough, in case there was some kind of...mistake," Lanie continued, reluctantly, "I ran Reichardt's prints through the database. Ryan wasn't the only hit. I also found this."

Reaching into the folder in her hands, Lanie drew out a file, placing it on the captain's desk. As Montgomery flipped it open, Kate was surprised to realize it was a printed copy of an NYPD personnel record.

"Richard Conway?" Kate asked, raising an eyebrow.

"I'll give you the Cliff's notes version," Lanie offered, eyes roaming over the other curious faces crowed around her. "Officer Conway served with the NYPD out of the 43rd for nine years, beginning in 1959 and ending in 1968 when he was shot and killed during an attempted bank robbery."

"Jesus Christ..." Montgomery swore softly.

Following his eyes down to the papers in front of him, Kate saw what had prompted the reaction. The photo attached to the file was one of Konrad Reichardt, looking just as young as he had in 1944. Somehow, she found this photograph even more disturbing. In uniform, and without the scar, it was even more difficult to find any difference between his face and that of her colleague.

"1968... That lines up neatly with Reichardt's start at the Company," Bennet observed, thoughtfully. "If your man _is _Reichardt, it would appear it's not the first time he's posed as a cop."

So far, Kate had taken the validity of the evidence gleaned from the Company's files with a grain of salt, mindful of how little they knew about Bennet and his motives. For all they knew, Hiro's files had been manufactured with this end in mind from the very beginning—though to what purpose, she couldn't imagine. That degree and flavor of paranoia left her feeling a little like Castle, but which possibility was really more insane? Either they were being royally manipulated or everything they thought they knew about Kevin Ryan was wrong.

Before the Park Incident, even with their peculiar evidence, she would never have given the theory a serious thought. Even after, Kate thought the possibility would likely have been discarded quickly. It was only the fact that _Javier _had been the one to make that leap that had forced her to give it serious consideration. Javier knew Ryan better than any of them, so if _he _believed it was possible...

And now, seeing more evidence pile up—from their own files—the whole bizarre idea was beginning to feel all too real.

"How could Ryan—_Reichardt_, have been in my precinct this whole time without tipping his hand?" Montgomery asked, disbelieving. "If nothing else, Esposito should have noticed..._something_. He and his partner are practically joined at the hip."

"I think it's unlikely that Ryan—if he truly is Reichardt—was actively deceiving anybody," Bennet ventured. "He's had plenty of time during this case to make a break for it if he were."

"Which brings us back to the part where it's confusing," Montgomery said.

"They can't be the same person," Kate argued, applying logic where it still _could _be applied. "The photos we have of Reichardt were taken at least twenty years apart. He looks about the same age in both of them. If he had an ability similar to your daughter's, then how could Ryan look any older? And what about that cut on his face?"

She meant, of course, the gash on Kevin's forehead from his encounter with Barbara. Bennet nodded as he listened to her arguments, answering them quickly.

"There have been a few past cases of specials who, as a coping mechanism, managed to dissociate their ability to the point of negating it entirely," Bennet told them. "Sometimes it takes the form of an emotional crutch, upon which they believe their ability is dependent. In extreme cases, it can develop into an alternate personality, giving one persona control over the ability while the other remains entirely unaware of it.

"Normally, this occurs around the time of the ability's manifestation," Bennet continued, "and in every case I've heard of, the alter was the one granted control of the ability, allowing the original personality to remain ignorant. While he obviously functioned successfully for decades, Reichardt's files from the Company do make mention of increasing dissociation. It's _possible _that some event might have triggered something similar to happen, causing him to repress not only his memories and his identity, but his abilities as well."

He paused for a moment, and while Bennet was a hard man to read, his hesitation reminded Kate of his earlier reluctance sharing information about his daughter's ability. Whatever details he was considering, they weren't ones he was happy to discuss.

"It's also possible," Bennet said after a few moments, "that Ryan is some kind of mnestic construct—"

"A what now?" Castle asked.

"A fabricated identity," Bennet answered, "created from false memories. _Like _a split personality, but...created and imposed upon the individual. The original is pushed back, buried or erased entirely and a new persona implanted to replace it."

From the grim sound of his voice, Kate would have laid odds that he'd had some experience with the subject. Unpleasant experience.

"Is that even possible?" Castle asked, alarmed, though the faintest bit of his earlier intrigue at the case could be felt peeking out from behind his confusion, like sun from behind a cloud.

"With several abilities, yes," Bennet said. "Telepathy, which isn't all that uncommon, and multiple other abilities that can work on memories specifically."

He paused again, taking in the faces aimed at him carefully.

"The distinction between the two is important," Bennet continued, his voice touched with sympathy. "If Ryan is a construct, then Reichardt is most likely entirely dormant within his mind, if he hasn't ceased to exist entirely. However, if he remains as a splinter personality, then the possibility exists that Reichardt could have resurfaced long enough to commit murder, and Ryan wouldn't even know it."

That possibility was sobering in the extreme, and Kate felt a little sick even contemplating it. Regardless of his insane...connection to their suspect, she hadn't honestly believed Kevin capable of murder. The thought that, in the end, that belief, however true, might not even matter left her shaken.

"Then what, exactly, _is _our next step?" Montgomery asked of Bennet, slowly, clearly still processing the reality of where things stood.

"We'll need a telepath to know exactly what we're dealing with," Bennet told them, his tone careful. "I can make some inquiries."

"Alright," Montgomery said, nodding. A silent moment passed before he looked at Kate. "In the mean time, Beckett, I don't have to tell you that both your boys are off the case."

She took a slow breath to calm her reaction to the implications of that, and nodded.

"I understand, sir."

Montgomery snorted, shaking his head, eyes distant with confusion.

"Wish_ I _did."

**(—**  
**=)**

Things had broken up quickly, leaving them scattering like mice. The ME returned to her duties while Beckett and the writer went to deliver her news to the waiting detectives. Outside of the captain's office, Tracy caught Noah's attention with a brief glance. With a nod, he followed her to a quiet hallway.

"I've been in communication with Micah," Tracy told him, once they were alone. "He sent me the information you had him look for."

She handed him a folder she had concealed in her coat.

"I take it nobody saw you print these," Noah commented needlessly as he skimmed the contents briefly.

"Micah accessed an empty office down in Traffic while we were still waiting on the ME's results." She paused, catching his attention. "I haven't read through it all, but there were a few things he pointed out to me."

Noah raised an eyebrow, encouraging her to continue.

"Esposito seems pretty clean," Tracy said. "School, military, police records, search history all seem normal, except that, over the past two weeks he's been looking into your background. According to Micah, his search hasn't been very deep so far, but it's been _very_discreet."

Noah processed that with a frown.

"It's possibly simple curiosity on the detective's part," he speculated, "but I wouldn't bet on it."

Tracy nodded, then continued.

"The probe into Ryan's past was a lot more...interesting. He is apparently an active blogger, and everything recent that Micah checked out seems legit... Except, looking farther back he found a handful of inconsistencies in line with what we've come to suspect. Prior to his transfer from Buffalo in 1999, things get a little sparse. Birth, school and academy records, but no photographs."

Tracy paused, wetting her lips before she continued.

"And, despite frequent references to them in his blog, Micah couldn't turn up any proof that Ryan's family even exists."

Noah took in that information with nothing more than a brief nod, his mind placing the pieces together with what he already understood and suspected.

"It's looking more and more like Ryan is some kind of construct," he told her, "and an incredibly complex one. We _need _to find a telepath to help us understand it all."

Noah frowned, shaking his head.

"The only one that comes to mind, though, is Matt Parkman, but he's all the way in Los Angeles." He sighed, contemplating that hopeless prospect. "This case feels too much like what happened with Sylar. Even if Matt would take my calls, I doubt we could get him in on this."

"There's Peter Petrelli," Tracy reasoned. "I think Hiro is still hanging around. He might be willing to take Peter to L.A. Peter could copy Parkman's ability and bring it back with him."

Noah considered that option. There was a lot about it that he didn't like, the least of which was his discomfort with the increasing number of people becoming involved. Specifically, involving Peter ran the risk of calling the attention of certain other parties, and in light of Angela's warning, that was something Noah wanted to avoid at all costs. Still, they were limited in their options, and Peter's talents _were _necessary.

It was a calculated risk, but Reichardt was simply too dangerous—and too important—to let go.

"Alright," Noah said finally. "Go ask Hiro if he's up for the trip."

Once Tracy had left, Noah allowed himself to browse the folder in his hands. Setting the information on Ryan and Esposito aside, he opened the one on Beckett. It didn't take him long to find what he was looking for.

"Interesting..."


	13. Chapter Nine: Beyond a Reasonable Doubt

**Chapter Nine: Beyond A Reasonable Doubt**

* * *

_"No matter how cleverly you sneak up on a mirror, your reflection always looks you straight in the eye."  
—Angel Heart (1987)_

* * *

They weren't silent after that—that just wasn't them—though the talk that followed was a strange, meandering thing of sporadic, random starts and sudden stops. Whole exchanges were begun and then abandoned, sentences trailing into nothing when they came up against something too painful or irrational to bear thinking about. They would fall into silence then, but only for a time before their scattered thoughts realigned themselves enough to start again.

"_Christ_, Javi," Kevin said suddenly, after another long silence. "I pulled a _gun _on you. What the hell was I thinking?"

It felt almost like an apology, and from the fresh horror on his face, one would think it had just happened. As far as Javier was concerned, the act was easy to forgive. Given the sheer volume of shit his partner had been forced to process in the last few hours, the lateness of it even more so.

"You were scared, and you were confused," Javier excused—weakly, he thought, since neither of those words even _began _to cover it. "And you didn't actually draw on me, you drew on that shady asshole, Bennet. I was just stupid enough to get in the way."

Kevin managed an anemic smile.

"Yeah, I noticed you're not exactly a fan of his," he observed softly. "Why is—"

They were both startled by a light tapping. Turning in his seat, Javier saw Kate and Castle through the window beside the door. What he saw in their faces...wasn't good. He felt Kevin tense beside him.

"Bro," Javier turned back to his partner, "you gonna be okay if I talk to Kate for a minute?"

Kevin took a slow, deep breath, steadying himself, then nodded tiredly. Javier slapped his arm lightly as he stood, stepping out into the hallway. Kate's eyes were somewhat guarded, and Castle's expression anxious. Javier greeted them with a nod, feeling oddly calm himself. Numb perhaps, resigned.

"The prints and DNA were a match," Kate told him, voice and eyes betraying how at odds she was with the whole idea, "but Lanie also found another hit in the database, a deceased officer named Richard Conway."

She handed him a folder. Opening it with a frown, Javier wasn't surprised at the image staring back at him from the photograph inside. Or, not as surprised as he probably should be. It was still jarring how, in police blues, it was that much easier to see his partner in Reichardt's face.

"It fits with what Kaito Nakamura's letter describes of Konrad's past," Kate continued, handing him a copy of the letter, apparently translated by the man's son while they waited on Lanie's results. "His presence at the riot, and his reluctance to abandon his life, until it ended in a bank robbery in 1968."

Javier skimmed the letter. He vaguely remembered mention of Nakamura and the riots, Kevin repeating the details of Kate's interview with Mrs. Petrelli on their way back to the station. That had been... God, it couldn't even have been four hours ago. It felt like days.

"Even Bennet doesn't believe Kevin was aware of any of this," Kate told him, carefully. "At least not—"

She paused, shaking her head. There was a dark emotion behind her eyes that Javier wasn't sure he wanted to put a name to.

"Anyway, that's... It's not much, but it's something. Right now Bennet is trying to find someone who can help us untangle things. And I know it stinks," Kate told him, softly, "but the captain's taking you off the case."

"Nah, it's cool," Javier managed, dully.

Which was completely inaccurate. Things were just so savagely screwed up at this point that the _case _was the last thing on Javier's mind. He understood what she wasn't saying, though. Looking over, Javier saw Castle looking in through the window. Looking at Kevin who sat with his back to the glass, tension written in the lines of his shoulders. All of the excitement the writer had felt about the case seemed to have left him completely, and the expression on his face was painfully sympathetic, and serious in a way Javier very rarely saw.

"I don't even know how to feel about any of this," Castle said. "It's just _way _too strange..."

He turned around, looking at Kate with a lost, helpless light of hurt in his eyes that Javier felt reflected his own feelings very closely.

"What are we going to tell him?" Castle asked her quietly.

Kate's lips pressed in a tight line. She appeared uncertain. Javier took it upon himself to answer the writer's question as definitely as he could.

"We tell him the truth," he told them both simply. "Everything."

There was no anger in it. Javier knew they were thinking of Kevin too. Kate hesitated.

"Javier, I don't know—"

"I do," he interrupted firmly, looking through the window at his partner. His fingers flexed on the folder in his hands. "Don't worry, Kate. I got this."

For a moment he thought she might argue, but finally she gave a slight nod.

Steeling himself for what had to happen next, Javier stepped back into the side office. Kevin turned around to look at him, anxious and wary. Javier saw the moment his partner read the expression in his eyes—the _answer _in them—face twisting distressingly with God alone even knew what emotions as he wrestled with the idea in his head. When his face finally stilled, whether Kevin had tamed those emotions or whether they had defeated him was impossible to tell.

Javier sank back into the seat beside his partner, sliding the file in front of him. He watched Kevin's hesitation carefully as the other man reached out and flipped it open. Watched as his partner's breath caught, released slowly in a soft moan as he read.

"Oh God..." Kevin's voice was a broken, wrung out thing, the words barely audible.

Kevin was silent for a moment, staring down at the image staring back or at the letter, eyes occasionally jumping to some detail or another, erratically as though refusing to see the whole. Then he looked away, pushing back from the table to stand. He looked around, almost aimlessly as though looking for something to hang his thoughts on. Dragging a hand through his hair he paced a few slow steps, finally stopping with a shaking breath.

"Kate said that loft where Zimmerman was killed was owned by the Company, right?" Kevin asked suddenly.

His voice was strung with a perilous tension, and the question caught Javier off guard. Fortunately for him, Kevin didn't seem to require his answer, as he quickly plowed on.

"That gives—" Kevin hesitated with a sick swallow. "That gives _Reichardt _a connection to both the victim and the scene, a clear cut motive... He's—"

He broke off with an odd, breathless laugh that was a little disturbing under the circumstances, and more than a little hysterical.

"_I'm _the only suspect we've got," Kevin concluded deslolately.

"Don't forget Barbara," Javier argued, standing to face him. Because Javier would let Kevin believe _that_ about himself when he was goddamned dead and buried. "She _attacked _us. She ran."

"No. _No_, Javi..." Kevin said, shaking his head. "She attacked _me_. She ran from _me_. Because she recognized me, because she thought I'd killed her father—she probably thought she was _next_! That has to be—"

His voice cracked and he fell silent, running both hands over his face.

"Jesus _Christ_, Javi," Kevin choked out, hands pushing back to fist themselves lightly in his hair. "What if it's true? What if I _am_our killer?"

Javier stepped forward, grabbing a gentle hold of Kevin's wrists and pulling them down between them. The move commanded his partner's startled attention, and for a moment Kevin just stared.

"Come on, Kev," Javier said once he had his eyes. "Do you _remember _killing the guy?"

"Of course not," Kevin allowed, eyes wide and terrified, "but if I don't even know who _I_ am, how can I know anything else? Know it for _sure_?"

Javier opened his mouth to argue, but Kevin stopped him.

"Javier..." The name that left his partner's lips was a devastated croak. "If I'm— If it's _true_ it means...it means my entire life is a lie. That none of what I _remember _is real. It means that my family..."

Kevin trailed off, and Javier could feel him shaking through the grip he still held on the other man's wrists.

"My _entire_ family—if they even _existed_ the way I remember them—they've been dead for more than _sixty years_. I—" Kevin's voice broke, his eyes filled with grief and panic and the beginning of tears. "How? _How_? Just _how _the hell am I supposed to _live _with that?"

Kevin's breathing had already been alarmingly uneven. Now it had become more rapid, but shallow like the air wasn't really entering his lungs. His eyes were locked in hopeless terror on some invisible point past Javier, almost unseeing, and his whole body was shaking. Javier felt him begin to sag, and he slid his hands up Kevin's arms to grip his shoulders and keep him on his feet.

"Don't you flip out on me again. Don't you _dare_," he said, squeezing Kevin's shoulder's tightly, almost painfully to get through to him. "C'mon, Kev, focus on me. Breathe. _Slowly_."

Javier had to repeat those words a couple times before his partner managed to respond to them. Eventually Kevin's breathing did slow, though the tremors still occasionally shook his frame. Kevin stood—barely—supporting himself with fingers tangled deeply in the fabric of Javier's sleeves. His head was bowed, face turned down toward the floor between them. Whether his eyes were closed or open it was impossible to tell.

It was past 9 p.m. Most of the activity in the station would have died down to a trickle. Javier wasn't sure when Kate and Castle had left the two of them alone, but he found himself uncomfortably relieved that they had. The way he and his partner stood was almost an embrace, and Javier felt like he was balanced on the edge of a cliff. Over the edge of that cliff Javier saw the future he had spent so much time being afraid of, and it felt like the slightest breath might push it the rest of the way. In light of everything that had been revealed, that future was far from the worst that Javier could imagine, but it was still a fall he just wasn't ready for.

And Javier didn't even know what he wanted anymore, he just knew he didn't want _anything _if it meant Kevin lost everything else. Despite Kevin's words eight years from now, Javier couldn't imagine how this was something it was possible to fix.

Javier pushed back gently on his partner's shoulders and Kevin stirred slowly, looking up at him. His eyes were rimmed with red, his face streaked with the evidence of the tears he'd managed to shed in silence. He looked completely exhausted, though a cautious uncertainty showed in his eyes and the creases of his forehead—a nervous, fight-or-flight type of anxiety, as if after all the bumps and bruises to his spirit he was only waiting for the next thing that would hurt him.

Whoever or whatever that inevitably turned out to be, it would answer to _Javier _first.

"Kevin," Javier said. "I want you to trust me. Can you do that?"

Kevin stared at him for a blank moment before he gave a helpless nod.

"Sure," Kevin said, oddly like he wasn't sure what he was agreeing to. After a few breaths he let out a faint, lifeless laugh, shaking his head. His face was sincere when his eyes met Javier's again. "Of course."

"This...this is going to work out," Javier told him, softly, but firmly enough that his partner would have to listen. "I don't know how—not _yet—_but... This is going to work itself out, okay? We'll get through this. I _promise_."

Javier saw his partner hesitate, but Kevin managed a slight nod. As if only now realizing the tight grip he still held, Kevin carefully loosened his fingers from the fabric of Javier's shirtsleeves, smoothing the crazed wrinkles lightly before he let his hands fall away. Seconds ticked by and neither of them spoke, turning over into minutes before Kevin broke the silence again.

"Javi..." Kevin asked, his voice holding a tremulous edge of anxiety that cut straight to Javier's gut. "What are they going to do with me?"


	14. Interlude 5—June 2010

_**Kevin & Javier—Manhattan, New York; June 2010**_

Kevin didn't realize he had fallen asleep until he jerked awake, Javier's voice whispering that he should go to bed.

Javier's breath was warm, and his mouth seemed oddly close to Kevin's ear. Disoriented and still half-asleep, it took Kevin several moments to puzzle out that he had fallen asleep on his couch, and that he was apparently using his partner as a pillow. Blinking, he remembered renting movies with Javier earlier that night and realized that he must have drifted off.

"You stayin'?" Kevin asked his partner in a sleepy mumble.

The corners of Javier's mouth lifted in an odd smile, and he didn't respond right away. There was an expression in his eyes that Kevin couldn't read, like his partner was trying to memorize his face.

"Yeah," Javier said softly, before Kevin could comment on the pause. "Yeah, I'll be here. Go to bed, Kev."

And something felt...off. Something had felt off all night, but he hadn't been able to put his finger on it earlier, and right now he was too tired to even try.

As he was dressing for bed, Kevin was surprised to find there were tears half-dried on his cheeks. Disturbed, after a moment he decided he must have been dreaming. Something tickled at the back of his mind...something about a soldier running through a broken city, desperately calling for someone.

Or maybe that had been the movie. He couldn't quite remember.

For a moment, Kevin was struck by the painfully sharp desire to hear his mother's voice. Gazing at the clock, he pushed the thought away with a snort. It was far too late at night—practically morning, really. He promised himself he would call her first thing in the morning.

Of course, by the time morning came, that promise had been forgotten as well.


	15. Chapter Ten: To Walk A Mile

**Chapter Ten: To Walk A Mile**

* * *

_He dreamed he was a wolf who dreamed he was a man who dreamed he was a wolf who dreamed. And in that maze of dreams there had been bits and pieces of memory, flying like the fragments of an exploded jigsaw puzzle..._  
— _Robert McCammon, The Wolf's Hour_

* * *

Sylar remembered quite vividly the first time he saw Hiro Nakamura's ability in use, years ago during their bizarre duel that had ended with a grim bargain struck for the life of a waitress in Texas.

No doubt most people found the notion of that much power uncomfortable, the display of its vast potential jarring when contrasted with the childlike nature of the man that wielded it. Still, Sylar doubted anyone could possibly find the experience quite as disorienting as he did. Whenever he witnessed that power in action, Sylar's own ability lent its voice, whispering a half-formed understanding of the processes involved. That incomplete knowledge was like an itch beneath his neopallium that he couldn't quite scratch, and every time Hiro bent time, Sylar understood just enough of what was happening that he could almost hear the universe groaning in protest.

Of course, having that swirling maelstrom of screaming physics appear in the middle of Peter's apartment just after they had finished dinner had been intrusive and unsettling on an entirely _different_level.

And, as they materialized in an empty interrogation room apparently designated for that purpose, the evening only promised to grow less pleasant. Certainly not for the first time, Sylar cursed Peter's foolishness and his sense of duty—and he cursed his own foolishness even more. For while Peter should honestly know better by now than to trust Noah Bennet, here he was answering the man's call. And if Peter was a fool, then Sylar was worse. He couldn't leave Peter to deal with Bennet on his own and trust him not to fall prey to the Company man's manipulations, of that much he was firmly certain...

But, motives notwithstanding, what else could you call a wanted serial killer who willingly entered a police station if not a fool?

Not that he was concerned about capture. If the situation had warranted, he could have worn a different face entirely—a measure he had considered and quickly deemed unnecessary. Gabriel Gray was still a suspect in his mother's death, but he barely resembled that man any more. During his brief tenure at Building 26, Sylar had been pleased to learn that neither the FBI nor the NYPD had ever connected his legal identity to the specials he'd murdered as Sylar. And, as far as he could tell, the President still slept soundly at night believing his attempted assassin had been caught and executed successfully.

And while Bennet was intimately aware of the truth behind each of those crimes, Sylar knew he had the man's sufferance—if only for a time.

Sylar had been fairly amused to see Bennet the victim of his own manipulations there, aware of how the former agent's politicking had essentially tied his hands. It was just too soon after Samuel Sullivan's attempt at genocide in Central Park and the revelation that followed for Bennet to risk Sylar's deeds coming to light. Throwing tales of another super-powered killer—particularly one whose powers made Sullivan's look paltry by comparison—onto the already volatile bonfire of public reaction would do nothing good to the delicate situation surrounding specials as a whole.

By extension, that would put Noah's poor little Claire-bear at risk. God forbid.

No, Sylar was content with the stalemate as it stood. He couldn't honestly bring himself to care that Bennet doubted his attempts at reform, but for now, as long as he stayed where the man thought he could watch him, Sylar knew that Bennet would bide his time until he could pursue his revenge safely.

Of course, any interaction between them held the potential to throw that balance all to hell, but Sylar was determined to be on his best behavior. For Peter's sake, but also because—as he fondly remembered from his short stint at the Company—needling Bennet from behind a curtain of civility was impossibly entertaining.

"What is he doing here?" Bennet asked Peter flatly as soon as he registered their appearance.

Bennet's tone and gaze were both sharp, eyes filled with more suspicion than was normal even for him. And more suspicion than _anger_, Sylar realized, which in itself was unusual. Weighing his initial reaction, Sylar didn't think the former agent was at all surprised to see him. That was interesting.

"I'm hurt Noah," Sylar said quickly, with a sarcastic note of affront. He filed the faintly discordant details away for later examination. "Are you not happy to see me?"

From the corner of his eye, he saw Peter wince.

"Sorry, Noah," Peter offered apologetically, "He wanted to come along on this, and he...had some good arguments."

"He means my argument that only an idiot would trust you as far as they could throw you," Sylar clarified, bluntly.

Sylar tried not to smirk at the memory of the times—and distances—he _had _thrown the man in the past. Behind him he heard Hiro shift his weight uncomfortably, trying to avoid notice as he ducked out the door.

"Trust." Bennet almost spat the word. "That's a rich sentiment coming from a murdering shapeshifter who tried to replace the President."

Sylar grimaced distastefully. Though he would never admit it, even Sylar considered his attempt to usurp the presidency a little crass, in hindsight.

"Not that I'm keeping score, Noah," Sylar rebutted, keeping his voice low and carefully even, "but just which one of us has spent the most time deceiving the other? _You_ sent Elle to manipulate me into killing so that you could see how my ability worked. _You_ tried to blackmail Canfield into using his ability to kill me. And you were party to Angela's attempt to record her dead son's memories over mine like an old video tape. I'll acknowledge the blood on my hands, but don't you _dare _pretend that I don't know what I'm talking about."

Sylar felt Peter flinch beside him at the mention of his brother. He regretted the words, but he tried not to let it show. He could see Bennet's arguments brewing behind his eyes, but before the man could let loose the door to the interrogation room opened. The woman who entered was tall and very attractive, with dark hair and eyes that regarded them both with a guarded appraisal that screamed "cop". The man who followed behind her screamed nothing of the kind, though Sylar thought he seemed oddly familiar.

"So, uh," the man said uncertainly, looking them both over with faint, nervous curiosity, "which one of you is the telepath?"

"Neither of them, actually," Bennet said after a pause—regaining his composure, if one could say so of a man who betrayed so little to begin with. "Detective Beckett, Mr. Castle, this is Peter Petrelli, Angela's son. And..."

Bennet's eyes took in Sylar indecisively, obviously at a loss to explain him to the detective. He decided to take pity just this once. Well... Pity of a sort. Affecting an amiable smile, he offered Mr. Castle his hand.

"Gabriel. Gabriel _Butler_," Sylar introduced himself, relishing the faint spark of irritation in Bennet's eyes as he appropriated the man's old alias. "I was Noah's partner in the Company."

That last wasn't an outright lie, though the period Angela's manipulations had forced them to work together had been _blessedly _brief. Sylar saw hot discomfort in Bennet's gaze at the familiarity he was claiming. Nonetheless, either he decided the ruse was simple enough for his purposes, or he felt disputing it was more trouble than he could afford.

"Mister...Castle?" Sylar then asked, with far more interest than he actually felt. "Not _Richard _Castle? The writer?"

For, coupled with the name, Sylar quickly identified where he had seen the man before. Before the manifestation of his ability, his life as Gabriel Gray had more or less consisted entirely of interchangeable periods of work and reading. Though his tastes normally fell more toward the the informative, on rare occasions he had indulged in mysteries as well, and he was sure he recalled reading one or two of the man's novels in the past.

"Uh, yeah," Castle confirmed with slack surprise as he shook the hand in front of him.

Through the contact, Sylar's touch-empathy gleaned the man's faint pleasure at the recognition that lay close to the surface. Delving a little deeper, he could feel a storm of conflicted emotions—curiosity and confusion, horror, concern, excitement, guilt and dread—all tangled up in the back of the writer's mind. Intrigued, he was tempted to extend the handshake, exercise another ability to learn more through a retrieval of the man's recent history. Unfortunately, the greeting was summarily interrupted by a disapproving look from Detective Beckett, which had the writer retracting his hand with chagrin.

"To anticipate your next question," Bennet told the detective, directing disapproval of his own toward Sylar as though aware of what he had been doing, "Peter is a mimic. Like Reichardt, he can copy the abilities of other specials, though in his case he can only copy a single ability at a time. I was hoping he might agree to aid us by acquiring telepathy for a short while."

He turned his attention to Peter during that last, making it a question.

"Uh, yeah, about that..." Peter said, confusion plain on his face, "Hiro tried to tell me what was going on, but I didn't really understand what he was talking about. Something about his uncle, secret Nazis and murder?"

Though his face remained impassive, Sylar could practically hear Bennet debating with himself whether to share the information in Sylar's presence. He must have been unable to think of an adequate argument to do otherwise, however, as he reluctantly began to outline the situation. As Bennet spoke, Sylar found himself caught between intense fascination and a very personal sense of horror. The story of the policeman who was his own suspect was impressive in the uniqueness of its intrigue, but at the same time Detective Ryan's precarious and alarming circumstances hit him painfully close to home.

"Hmm, yes," Sylar said, affecting a sympathetic tone to cover his unease. "I can see why Parkman might be reluctant to cooperate with you in something like that."

The glance he shot Bennet silently punctuated the sentence with an unvoiced implication. _Again_.

"Uh, just what is it you're going to...do, exactly?" Castle asked hesitantly.

Dissecting what he'd learned from the brief reading and matching it to what he now knew of the case, Sylar felt the writer was at war within himself against a natural curiosity as he tried to do his friend's predicament justice.

"We need to know the nature of the divide between Ryan and Reichardt," Bennet clarified carefully, "whether Reichardt poses an active threat. Peter may be able to decipher that with just a glance, or it may require something more...thorough."

_Invasive_, Sylar translated to himself.

"Once we understand that," Bennet continued carefully, "we'll need to know whether Reichardt was somehow involved in the murder."

Detective Beckett seemed about to protest, but Bennet held up a hand before she managed to speak.

"Hopefully, Detective, we'll be able to rule him out as a suspect," Bennet said, firmly, though not without what Sylar grudgingly acknowledged was a note of sympathy. "But I know you're aware it's a possibility we have to consider. And, regardless of whether Reichardt has any knowledge of the murder itself, he may still be our best source of information regarding Zimmerman's time at the Company."

Sylar caught the course of action suggested in Bennet's words long before anyone else did, and was proud of his control when he managed not to react outwardly—that reaction could so easily have turned violent. Judging from the concerned glance that was soon sent his way, Peter was next.

"Wait." Peter said, forehead creasing as he worked it out, "you're not saying you want me to...make him Reichardt again?"

Sylar watched as the idea hit the detective and her companion, leaving them both startled and understandably ill at ease. This time, Beckett made herself heard.

"Are we certain this is even necessary?" she argued. "We don't even know for sure that Reichardt is involved. Until we have stronger evidence suggesting otherwise, we don't need _him _to continue working the case. Especially when the only way to accomplish it would require..."

She trailed off, clearly at a loss for how to articulate the idea. Castle picked up the thread of her argument

"Wouldn't that mean effectively...un-writing Kevin Ryan?"

Earnest eyes clearly displayed his sick horror at the thought, and Sylar could guess from his hesitation and the uneven tone of his voice that he'd almost used another word entirely.

"Not _un-writing_," Bennet argued, pausing as he considered his words carefully. "Just...isolating. Temporarily. Partitioning off."

None of Bennet's words had been an outright _lie_, Sylar's abilities told him that to a concrete certainty, but there were still plenty of other ways for the man to _deceive_. And if no one else had noticed that Bennet had avoided directly addressing Detective Beckett's questions of necessity, Sylar most certainly had. He wasn't able to address it, however, before Peter spoke up.

"It can be done," Peter admitted reluctantly, and Sylar supposed it was possibly meant to be reassurance. "Probably. I'd need to know first how separate the two personalities are, and what keeps them that way, but... It can be done."

Peter's eyes were shadowed as he spoke, and Sylar knew he was thinking of the last time he'd seen his brother's face—a face that had, by rights, belonged to _Sylar_. Recollection of that night always made Sylar's skin crawl faintly. He had no memory of the deed when it was first done to him—the sick miracle Parkman had performed to keep Angela's oldest son alive _in memory_—but he remembered _that _night. He remembered the distressing fight with his own body, shifting against his control to take the form of another. He remembered the paralyzing terror as Peter uprooted his memories and identity piece by piece...

The horror of the experience had dulled over the years of compressed time he'd later spent locked within his own mind, but it had never really left him. And Peter's efforts had still proven futile, in the end...

All he had accomplished that night was the chance to say goodbye.

"Peter," Sylar warned softly, his voice blank of emotion even to his own ears, "if you open that box you can't know that you'll be able to close it again."

Conflict was visible in Peter's eyes as he weighed Sylar's words. After a few moments he turned to regard Bennet and Detective Beckett.

"What are Detective Ryan's feelings on all this?" Peter asked, though Sylar felt the answer to that should have been clear.

If Beckett and the writer hadn't been made aware Bennet's plans, he doubted the _object _of those plans had been kept any better informed. Bennet's silence was all the confirmation either of them needed.

"I can't do that to him without his permission, Noah," Peter told the man firmly, a touch of anger slipping into his voice. "I _won't_."

"Fine, Peter," Bennet said, resignation audible in his acceptance of Peter's conditions, "But please tell me exactly how we're supposed to convince Detective Ryan to go through with it."

But it was Sylar who answered that question.

"I'll talk to him," he said.

Peter's eyes widened slightly in surprise at Sylar's words—and Sylar could admit to feeling a small amount of surprise that he had spoken them. Bennet eyes narrowed in wary suspicion. Detective Beckett and the writer both looked at him with vague confusion, unaware of the significance the offer held. Sylar met Bennet's gaze, expecting challenge, but was surprised to see the other man give a slight nod of approval, however reluctantly. Despite their deeply rooted dislike of each other, they both knew that Sylar was the only one who could possibly relate to Detective Ryan on the subject.

The conversation very nearly didn't happen.

From the moment they arrived outside the room where Ryan was being kept the man's partner, Detective Esposito, met them with a remarkable degree of suspicion and hostility. In fact, the way he bristled just from Bennet's presence was almost enough to make Sylar like him just a little. If his resistance hadn't stood in direct opposition to Sylar's own goals, he probably would have found it amusing.

And that was _before _Bennet began to explain what they were after. From the way Esposito's fingers twitched, for a moment Sylar thought the detective was going to shoot him.

"No, Bennet. No way in _hell_."

"I understand your objections, Detective Esposito, and I know this course of action must seem…drastic. But, apart from being the surest way to discover Reichardt's connection to the murder—if any—it may be our _only _means of proving your partner's innocence."

Sylar could see the possibility gave the detective pause, but after a moment Esposito shook his head.

"I don't know how your Company did things, Bennet, but if you think I'm going to let you play around inside my partner's head you must be out of your own damned mind."

"It's not your choice to make," Sylar offered mildly, interrupting their discussion.

Esposito looked at him then, as if he'd only just caught the man's attention.

"_Excuse _me?" He asked, curtly. "And just who the hell are you?"

Over the course of the man's conversation with Bennet, Sylar had considered several ways in which he might introduce himself. Esposito's obvious dislike of Bennet meant claiming association with the Company would only work against him. The _truth _was right out.

"Gabriel," he said finally, deciding to keep it simple.

The detective's reaction was interesting, to say the very least. His eyes narrowed, cutting briefly toward Bennet with a gaze that returned far too quickly. There was something in that aborted gesture, a recognition—one Sylar felt the man was trying to hide. Coupled with Bennet's lack of surprise… Sylar wondered if the two were connected in some way.

_Later_.

"Believe me, Detective," Sylar offered quickly, directing a glance at Bennet that was half sneer, "I wouldn't trust Bennet with my goldfish, let alone the psyche of anyone I pretended to care about. But it's not _your_ choice. This is something only your _partner _can decide."

He could see Esposito's resolve weaken slightly under that approach, and struck again swiftly.

"Let me talk to him," Sylar insisted. "Five minutes. It will take at least ten for Peter to return."

Esposito considered reluctantly, turning to Bennet with a frown.

"You going to vouch for this guy?" he asked Bennet pointedly.

The question seemed oddly calculated, as though Esposito was appealing to the friction between Sylar and Bennet in an effort to shake their proposal. Sylar could almost laugh at the constipated expression that crossed Bennet's face. Moments passed before he spoke.

"Gabriel has…a unique perspective to offer regarding your partner's situation," Bennet said, hesitantly.

It was all very diplomatic.

"And he doesn't have some ability that's going to coerce my partner into doing something against his will?" Esposito asked quickly, an unusual bit of forethought that Sylar couldn't help but respect a little.

"Not to the best of my knowledge," Bennet answered firmly.

The dig passed over the detective's head. Sylar had every reason to believe that Bennet's knowledge of his existing arsenal was fairly complete. For him to have an ability Bennet was _not_already aware of, the implication followed naturally that Sylar was hunting again. He wasn't, and he knew that Bennet knew that. It was part of their unspoken truce, after all. Still, it was a marvelously subtle way of Bennet to say out loud what Sylar knew had been in the man's head ever since he and Peter had arrived in the station.

Calling Sylar a monster to his face clearly ran counter to his current agenda, whatever that was.

In the end, the most Esposito agreed to was staying outside the door. Sylar was aware of the detective's eyes watching the meeting intently through the window as he entered. Unintimidated, he ignored the man and carried on.

Focused on negotiation with the man's partner, Sylar hadn't yet had a chance to get a good look at Detective Ryan. The man struck him as almost preternaturally unassuming. Attractive by some standards, perhaps, and his suit and vest were as embarrassingly outmoded as anything Gabriel Gray might have worn, but not the sort of man you would give a second glance if you saw them on the street. Still, there was something oddly familiar about his face. As if he'd seen him before…possibly in a photograph. The memory was vague, however, as though it were something from long ago, and given what he knew of the man's connection to the Company and Angela Petrelli, it was possibly that the memory belonged to Nathan.

And Sylar could tell from the moment he laid eyes on him that the man was a special. He could sense it, the way he often could, though there was a peculiar discord on the edge of his awareness. It chafed subtly against his senses like sand caught in his teeth. Or like a broken watch. It was the unmistakable, aggravating feeling of a thing not working properly. More than anything, it reminded him of what he'd felt when Arthur Petrelli had stolen his son's original ability. Only, whereas Peter's crippled ability had felt like a mechanism less a crucial gear, Ryan felt as though all the parts were still in place. They simply awaited the push that would set them back in motion…

_Peter's problem_, Sylar decided, putting his focus toward the task at hand.

As the door fell softly closed, Detective Ryan looked up. Warily, _so _warily. Sylar saw his eyes move briefly to the window behind him—seeking his partner's, Sylar thought. Whatever unseen expression or reassurance he saw, Ryan seemed to calm just a little.

"Who are you?" Ryan asked—far more politely than his partner, though there was still a note of defensive challenge I his tone.

"My name is Gabriel," Sylar told him. "I'm..."

As with his partner, Sylar had considered briefly multiple approaches to their introduction. Despite the experiences they apparently held in common—or indeed, possibly because of them—Sylar found himself briefly at a loss. But, after what he felt was too long a pause, he felt he had to offer something.

"I'm…no one special."

He saw Ryan take in the words, forehead creasing gently as though trying to decode some hidden meaning in them. Sylar hadn't intended any, though it approached a painfully Freudian slip of the tongue. Sylar knew he would have to be careful. The man was practically vibrating with anxiety, as though anticipating some sort of attack. That nervous fear rang all sorts of bells, and at that moment Sylar was reminded sharply of being in this position months ago. Found wandering by police, alone, terrified, lost—a nameless _nothing _ignorant of his own identity, and for all his power entirely helpless against the accusation that he was a murderer...

An uncertain beat passed before Sylar decided the route he would take with the man.

"Can I show you something?" he asked carefully, approaching the table to sit only at Ryan's reluctant nod.

Reaching into his pocket, Sylar pulled out his wallet. As always, he felt a sting of unpleasant emotions as he drew the photograph out of hiding. Guilt, anger, sorrow, _regret_. Sylar ran fingertips lightly over the two young faces that stared back at him before he handed it over to the wary detective.

As Ryan took the photograph, their fingers touched—just briefly, but it was enough. Enough to get a sense of the man's "heart", as Lydia had once described her ability's function.

Sylar felt the man's hesitant curiosity coating the surface of his emotions like a layer of dust, barely concealing the snarl of confusion and doubt beneath—or the intense, cold, sucking _panic_ at its core. Feeling that terror for himself—coiled tightly inward like a snake devouring itself—Sylar was abruptly forced to reevaluate his impression of the detective. For while Ryan's fear lay close enough to the surface that anyone could see, Sylar was taken aback by how well the man hid the full, gaping black _depth _of it.

His grasp on composure was thin, though, _very _thin. But that curiosity was the key, Sylar thought. If he could manage to hold Ryan's interest, the detective might just remain stable enough for him to make his point.

"Peter and I both pretend he doesn't know I have this," Sylar admitted, though he knew it probably meant nothing to the detective. "The older one is named Simon. He's twelve. His brother, Monty, just turned nine."

The introduction caught Ryan slightly off guard. Forehead creasing fretfully, the detective gave the photograph another glance before he set it back on the table, his eyes searching Sylar's uncertainly.

"Uh, your sons?" Ryan guessed cautiously, clearly trying to connect significance to the photo in this moment.

Momentarily distracted by the photograph before he returned it to its hiding place, Sylar silently shook his head.

"About a year ago, I..." Sylar began, hesitating briefly over his choice of words—how to explain himself without confessing to murder. "I was responsible for the death of Angela Petrelli's oldest son. _Nathan_."

The man had been such a non-topic during his time trapped in the purgatorial nightmare of his own mind with Peter that Sylar fought himself just dragging the name from his throat.

"I'm a shapeshifter," Sylar explained, which was understating things dramatically, but it gave Ryan the information he needed to understand. "And, as punishment and a way of keeping him alive, Angela had a telepath erase my identity and implant me with her dead son's memories."

And Sylar saw the detective make the connection then, sitting back with a stunned expression as he grasped the parallel which Sylar was trying to make.

"For more than six months," Sylar continued, "I lived Nathan Petrelli's life, never knowing it wasn't my own. When I discovered the truth... I was angry. I was _so _angry..."

His reaction, Sylar knew, was probably best left out of the equation.

"I'm not what most people consider a good person," he substituted, a simple fact that would have to suffice. "But while Nathan was far from _perfect_, he was important to a lot of people. He had a brother who looked up to him, two handsome sons and a teenage daughter, and an estranged wife he was considering..."

Sylar trailed off, unwilling to proceed honestly where even he wasn't entirely sure of what he felt, and which feelings were his own.

"Noah wants me to convince you to let him unbury your real past," Sylar told the man, watching Ryan's reaction carefully. "If it were _me_, I'd tell him to drop dead. But he thinks that Reichardt's insight can help solve this murder, whether he was responsible or not. None of your friends want to see him do that, but in the end its not their choice. It's yours. And _you _have to decide whether those answers are worth the risk."

Very little showed outwardly in the detective's face as Sylar's words sunk in, just the barest twitch of muscle here and there as he fought to remain calm in the face of that decision. His eyes were distant for a time before they cut abruptly to Sylar's own.

"If they bring Reichardt back..." Ryan asked slowly, a tremor in his voice that was just below hearing. "If they do that, what happens to _me_?"

Sylar sat back, fighting past the horrendous memory of the mental chop job that Peter had inflicted to the odd _blankness _that had followed. Done to him against his will, the experience had been impossibly traumatic, and the one monstrous thing he would ever say for sure could be laid at Peter's feet. But beyond the horror of the attack itself...

"As much as I hate to flatter him, Peter knows what he's doing," Sylar admitted. "He...did something similar once before, when he wanted to tell his brother 'goodbye'."

It was a stretch. Peter had been seeking revenge as much as anything else. The gory details of Sylar's crucifixion with a nail gun were better left out of the conversation entirely...

"For me, it was...kind of like going to sleep."

Ryan was quiet for another long moment before his head wobbled in a loose motion that wasn't quite a nod.

"I... I don't know," Ryan said, softly. "I'll think about it."

Sylar accepted that. He knew Bennet would have to. But Sylar thought he'd gotten enough of a sense of the detective to understand his inner workings, just a little. And he had a fairly strong intuition of what the man's answer would be...

And he had also come to understand something else.

"Autohypnosis," Sylar grudgingly shared with Bennet once he had left Ryan to think and the detective's partner had rejoined him.

Bennet raised an eyebrow inquiringly, and Sylar took it as his cue to explain.

"It was the third ability I picked up," Sylar told him, "back in the beginning. I no longer have it, but I recall the...feeling of it. The mechanism of its function."

He watched Bennet consider quietly, slow understanding punctuated by a nod.

"The ability essentially gives a person freedom to reprogram their own brain at will," Sylar continued, "to an amazing degree if they know how to use it properly. It could certainly have created a personality like Ryan, altering the interpretations of memories, or enforcing a framework to construct them as needed. It also allows for a certain amount of biofeedback: control over heart-rate, adrenal output, sensory reception. While it might not be possible to have so fine control of the ability as I was able to manage, from my experience with mimics, repressing his other acquired abilities might easily have been in his grasp at one time."

Sylar was actually rather proud of the understanding, but any joy he might have felt over it was quickly blighted by a hard turn to Bennet's already unfriendly demeanor.

"Sensory reception," Bennet gritted out lowly. "That was how you managed to kill Eden."

Remembering, whatever guilt Sylar might have felt was eaten away, a cruel smirk taking its customary place on his features.

"Was she the one with the _mouth_ who tried to compel me to suicide?" Sylar asked coyly, though he knew well enough that it had been. "Then _yes_, Noah, yes it was. And for the sake of disclosure, it was also how I stopped my heart so I could kill that doctor friend of yours who was sticking needles into my brain. Any more minutia you'd like cleared up while we're both managing to talk _so _civilly?"

And it might well have escalated from there into something that could neither be taken back nor stopped, but the door to the side office opened. Detective Ryan stood there, weight shifting awkwardly on his feet as he stared at them silently. Esposito stood nearby at his back, his face as stony and uncommunicative as anything Bennet might ever have managed.

Expression wavering between uncertainty and resolve, Ryan spoke.

"I'll do it."


	16. Interlude 6—February 14th, 1945

_**Adam & Konrad—Dresden, Germany; February 13, 1945**_

Kunz had gone quiet—_finally_—his initial anguished cries having already continued long after pain and damaged vocal chords would have forced a lesser man mute. Now the young immortal lay silent, curled up in the dust and rubble of what remained of his childhood home, his clothes singed and bloody, his face streaked with claret and ash and tears. Paralyzed in his grief, Konrad had so far stubbornly refused to budge, and he knew the younger man would be utterly useless when the two of them were finally found.

Honestly, he was surprised all the kid's carrying on hadn't brought someone sooner. Though he supposed it was understandable how a single voice could have gone unnoticed amongst the rest of the pathetic wailing that echoed through the broken streets.

As it was, he wound up waiting far longer than he would have liked for their capture.

When the soldiers finally arrived he placed his hands on the back of his head, dropping solidly to his knees. Broken masonry sliced and abraded the flesh exposed by his ruined uniform, but having so recently had large proportions of his anatomy pulped and roasted and regrown in their entirety that brief discomfort was hardly worth his notice.

"_Gefangener_!" he shouted, as clearly as he could while maintaining a distinct enough accent. "English _Gefangener_!"

Given their current circumstances, he could only hope they wouldn't stick a bayonet through his liver on sheer principle. Fortunately they managed to avoid that sort of unpleasantness, though judging by the soldier's expressions, it had been a very near thing.

Monroe was the name he gave them when asked, affecting an atrocious grasp of _Hochdeutsch—_Adam Monroe.

It was an identity that he had seen fit to set up in advance, with papers and tags to match, once the tide of the war had begun to turn in the Allies' favor. After so many centuries, he had learned the lesson of having his escape prepared, and learned it well. While there might indeed be many things in this world worth risking a premature end to his very long life, the curiosity which had moved him to observe the goings on in the _Fuhrer_'s camps was not one of them.

Now, _Konrad _on the other hand...

Konrad had been a rare and unanticipated find. It wasn't very often, after all, that he found anyone whom he might entertain as an intellectual equal—no one he had met even managed to approach his experience, for obvious reasons. But there was more to a person than just their years of life, and from almost the moment they had met, Konrad Reichardt had him intrigued. A sensitive man, one might almost go so far as to classify Konrad as _young_ beyond his years and experience, though he couldn't quite be called naive. On the contrary, Konrad had quickly proven himself a very sharp young man.

And excruciatingly aware of his place in the scheme of things.

Having spent the better part of his three centuries engaged in mercenary work Adam was well acquainted with war, and had seen young soldiers of all sorts live, fight and die on the battlefield. There were those who followed their orders blindly, secure in the knowledge that this was right. There were those whom delicate conscience would force to disobey—often at the cost of their own lives. And there were—and always would be—those who clung to obedience like a talisman, aware when orders deviated from their own native morals, yet letting blame rest safely on the shoulders of those who directed them.

Konrad Reichardt had been none of these. Konrad had firmly and truly believed serving his country was the right thing to do, and he had believed just as truly and just as firmly that the way he was doing so was abominable. And yet he had done—and would have continued to do—the duties ordered of him, until the weight of his guilt grew great enough to crush him completely...

Yes, Adam had seen plenty of men like Konrad as well. They had all met bad ends just as surely as the ones who were foolishly brave enough to defy. Their deaths had simply been a longer, quieter affair, excruciatingly slow. If not for the miracle which had taken place, had the young man managed to live another fifteen years beyond the war—_twenty-five_, Adam speculated, _at the outside_—Konrad would have spent each one of them dying from it.

The speedy execution that insubordination would have earned him seemed a mercy by comparison.

It had caught Adam quite off guard to realize he might actually mourn that loss... Though they were very different in temperament, he and Konrad had shared a surprising number of interests, and during the months they'd both spent at Auschwitz he'd grown rather fond of the younger man. Konrad wasn't a bad sparring partner with a blade even taking his injury into account, and he had a facility with languages that bordered on the unnatural...

Though Adam had since become certain there was nothing borderline about it.

It had been novel enough to find someone with whom he could converse with in English as easily as he could German. After a week's acquaintance, however, Adam had been surprised to find Konrad could manage French and Italian as well. Fascinated, he had come to learn that there wasn't a language spoken in the camp—by guard or prisoner—that Konrad did not understand to some degree, and its prisoners had come from such a varied number of places that that alone boggled the mind. Polish, Russian, Hebrew, Dutch, Magyar, Yiddish, Greek... Though the young man had sworn never to have heard it spoken in his life, it had taken only a single conversation in Japanese for Konrad to begin to grasp it. And Konrad had hinted more than once that he had come to suspect the veracity of Fritz Stahl's American origins—that he had never reported those suspicions had only further served to cement his appreciation of the young man.

And that had all been _before _the man's unfortunate...accident.

As Adam had watched Konrad draw that first impossible breath on the road, the memory had returned to him of the words Hiro Nakamura had spoken seeing the very same happen to him. _Ten'yo_—_godsend_. And it did seem to be a miracle, of sorts, for him to have met Konrad, to have befriended him, and then to have been there to see his death play out just as his own had so long ago...

Magnanimity was not in his nature, but Adam felt he had a stake in Konrad's survival. He deserved to see whatever the young man might one day make of himself.

Though survival was the farthest thing from Konrad's mind at the present moment.

Standing amid the rubble of Konrad's destroyed home, Adam spun his story carefully. He told the German soldiers of how he and his companion—"Dorian Gray" he called him, amusing himself with a reference that went quite unnoticed—had been separated from the other prisoners during the bombing. He didn't know if there _were _any British being held in Dresden, but with the city in ruin he thought it would be rather difficult for them to check. With luck they' would be shuffled in with an existing group of prisoners, and there they could take whatever time Konrad needed to work through his shock so that they could figure out their next step.

After all, if Mengele had anyone searching for a couple of_ SS_ deserters, a POW camp in the ruins of Dresden was probably the last place they would look.

* * *

**Translations:**

_Gefangener_ - prisoner_  
_

_Hochdeutsch_ - "high German", the standard dialect of German

I've made the assumption that _ten_'_yo_ (天与, or "God-given") was the word Hiro used during that scene. I was never able to figure out which one, but it does contain the character "与" (yo), "God-given", which is one of the characters that Ando identifies in the helix symbol.


	17. Interlude 7—December 17th, 2010

_**Kevin & Jenny—Manhattan, New York; December 17th, 2010; 11:24 PM**_

He hadn't expected her to pick up on the first ring, though, in hindsight, Kevin knew he should have.

On any other day, if he was going to be at the station after eight o'clock, he would have called to let her know, but today it had entirely slipped his mind. And when she had finally called him around nine o'clock Kevin had been sitting in that side office with Javier, waiting with anxious dread for his reality to be redefined. Hearing the sharp trill of his phone, Kevin had pulled it from his jacket pocket by reflex only to stare at her number on the display in stupid, frozen panic. It must have rung at least six times before Javier had finally pulled it from his hand. His partner had looked at it with odd, blank indecision before switching it off, sliding it back to him across the table.

Kevin had hesitated in retrieving it. He almost never turned it off. Not that he failed to understand why Javier had done it, and Kevin had been quietly thankful to have one less thing to think about. Still, something about it had bothered him. And it made no logical sense, but it had felt strange when he picked it up. It was the same phone, but it had seemed oddly heavier... More inert.

All of his earlier panic came surging back with accumulated interest once Kevin heard her voice over the line.

"Hey, sweetheart," Kevin managed finally, though he barely kept his voice from trembling.

"_Kevin, where are you?_" Jenny's voice sounded strangely distant, almost unreal. "_It's almost midnight. Why didn't you call? Are you okay?"_

"Yeah, no, I'm fine," he told her, keeping his tone light, though in truth Kevin was so far from _fine _he couldn't have found it with a GPS. "I left my phone in the break room and someone switched it off. Took me forever to find it."

Kevin hated lying to her, but no part of the truth even approached sane. He needed to tell her _something_, though, and he didn't know what else he possibly could have said. The thought crept in uninvited through some back door in his brain that it shouldn't have mattered—not when nearly everything else he had ever told her about himself was a lie anyway. They had simply been lies that Kevin had _believed_. That thought opened up a hollow feeling in Kevin's chest, a gap exposing the terror that had been threatening to devour him ever since he had seen that photograph of—

Swallowing against his nausea, Kevin tried to push it from his mind.

_Don't think about it_, he told himself furiously. _Don't think about the past,_ _don't try to imagine the future._ _Just focus on what's in front of you and you might manage not to fall apart again._

"I'm still at the station," Kevin continued after a few moments, once he was sure his voice would be steady. "I'm...I'm going to be...late. There's an important case we need to focus on and...I don't know when I'll be able to get away from it. I—"

He took a deep breath.

"You might not hear from me for a while, okay?"

"_Kevin...are you sure everything is alright?_"

Kevin could hear the worry that was beginning to take root in her voice despite his efforts to avoid it. Emotionally exhausted, Kevin was unable to hold back a sigh.

"Of course. It's just...it's just a really tough case, Jenn." Kevin knew he had to end this. He was already dangerously close to changing his mind. Taking another deep breath to ease the tightness in his chest, he added, "Listen I— I gotta go. Love you."

"_I love you too. Be careful._"

The silence on the other end of the line once the connection closed had never sounded so empty. Switching it off Kevin opened the drawer in his desk, dropping the phone on top of the files inside. After removing his holster, his badge and gun soon followed.

Pulling out his wallet Kevin flipped it open to the photos he carried with him. Pictures of Jenny or the two of them together mostly, and more than a few of him and his partner. He even had one of Javier and himself with Castle at the Old Haunt... But there were no photos of his family, no old friends from back home.

Kevin's throat tightened painfully, tears of grief and confusion stinging his eyes.

There was no sister living in Baltimore, always promising to send new pictures of his nephew. No old house with the creaky bannister and his mother's roses and the loose board in his closet where he had hidden his baseball cards. If that place ever _had_ existed it hadn't been in Buffalo—Kevin couldn't even know for sure whether he had ever been there himself. He had never joined the Boy Scouts with his friends—and _God_, but the reality that potentially lay behind _those _memories turned his stomach. And Konrad's father had been a watchmaker, not a cop, so for all he knew every one of those stories he remembered listening to while growing up might actually have been Conway's. _His_.

Kevin took a shaking breath and tried to focus on the the pictures in front of him, clinging desperately to the knowledge that _these_ moments had existed, that he had proof that he had lived them. Proof that there were pieces of himself that _were _real, no matter what else about him might not be. Kevin stared at those photographs a long time, until the tears in his eyes rendered the faces blurred and indistinct...

Then he threw the wallet into the drawer with all the rest, shutting and locking it before running a hand over his face.

Kevin knew he had to try and get a grip on himself. He had just a few short minutes before he had to walk into that interrogation room and—cease to exist. If something went wrong, if he never came back from this, the last time Javier and the others saw him it shouldn't be as a _victim_. In this and only this had he been given a choice, and though it terrified him beyond the point of reason, he refused to change his mind. After all, without the illusion of his past to stand on, his decisions and his actions were really all he had. The least he could do was follow through on them like a man.

Even if he _wasn't_ real, Kevin thought that had to count for something...


	18. Chapter Eleven: Exit, Stage Left

**Chapter Eleven: Exit, Stage Left**

* * *

_If your mirror be broken, look into still water; but have a care that you do not fall in.  
—Hindu Proverb_

* * *

If Javier hadn't already begun to hate Bennet, this would have been enough. And if he might have potentially appreciated the man discussing the idea with him first, in private, it was immediately offset by the feeling that it was less consideration on Bennet's part than a tactic of divide-and-conquer.

"When we start," Bennet was saying, "I want Peter and Ryan to be the only ones in that room."

"Try again," Javier said, not bothering to disguise his displeasure with the idea. "You as much as said when you showed up that this wasn't your rodeo. You're not about to take the reins now."

"It may not be, detective, but it's also not my _first_," Bennet told him, coolly. "I've been handling specials since you were a kid playing cops-and-robbers, so whatever your personal opinion of me—_why_ever you have it—I would appreciate the respect due _that_fact at least."

Bennet paused, shifting his demeanor as he met Javier's glare evenly. When he continued his voice was nothing so condescending as _gentle_, thank God, but there was a surprising note of respect not previously heard.

"I know Ryan is a colleague of yours and probably a friend, but _Reichardt_ is an unknown quantity," Bennet told him levelly. "I've seen an empathic mimic absorb dozens of abilities within only a few short months. Reichardt worked at the Company for _decades_. That put him in contact with an unknown number of potentially very dangerous abilities, and even with his own ability crippled, that is _not_a threat to be taken lightly."

As little as he liked that—Kevin being considered a _threat_—it was a difficult argument to challenge very easily, and Javier came up with nothing right away.

"He's not just a _colleague_," Javier finally managed after a few moments, voice tense with...apart from anger, he wasn't sure just what. "Not just a friend. He's my _partner_. I have to be there for him—"

His voice froze in his throat, the words "_'til the wheels fall off_" nearly escaping his lips.

It was Kevin's phrase from just over a year ago when it had been _Javier _being pulled down by the weight of past demons. Words promising him that, no matter what, Kevin had his back. Kevin's current situation went far so beyond going off books to clear Ike's name that it needed a passport, and Javier felt like his axle had been scraping pavement since the moment he laid eyes on that photograph—if not long before. Still he was determined to meet the challenge all the same.

Anything else just wasn't a physical possibility.

Bennet regarded him carefully then, something flickering briefly in those cool eyes that, if Javier hadn't known better, might have looked oddly like guilt.

"I'm not trying to shut your people out of this," Bennet said finally. "If it were at all possible to avoid it, I wouldn't choose to put Peter in that position either, but precautions _need _to be taken where at all possible. If you'll excuse me, I have a few things I need to discuss with Detective Beckett."

Bennet slipped away quickly, leaving Javier feeling dismissed whatever his intent.

Kevin was at his desk when Javier found him, phone lifted to his ear, and though he didn't get close enough to listen in it was obvious from the soft, careful tones of his voice that his partner was talking to Jenny. Even standing out of earshot, it was impossible not to try and imagine the conversation, though what Kevin might have chosen to say to her Javier couldn't even begin to guess.

And, as Javier watched Kevin locking away his personal effects—gun and badge, phone, wallet—it was just as impossible not to see the act as painfully symbolic.

Javier caught his partner's eye a moment later and tried to offer him a reassuring smile, though the feeling was only half there, and he could tell Kevin knew it. The walk to interrogation was a silent one, Javier following behind with a hand resting lightly on his partner's shoulder. Offering comfort, but just as much to reassure himself that Kevin was still there. In a few minutes, Javier knew, he wouldn't be, and it took nearly all his effort not to tighten his grip. Nothing could have made the situation okay, but Javier thought he was as prepared as he could ever be. Still, when they entered the interview room and he saw the shackles—fixed to a bolt on the underside of the table—he nearly balked.

As he went about the impossible task of placing his best friend and partner in chains, Javier made good use of his time...

"Bro, you don't have to do this."

Kevin's eyes, which had been resting uncertainly on his reflection in the mirror across the room, flickered to his, and he offered a weak smile.

"Yeah, Javi, I do," Kevin told him quietly. "I'm a suspect. I might be our _killer_. You can't just ignore that, sweep it under the rug and pretend it's not there. I can't either. Javier..."

His partner paused, wetting his lips.

"I'm scared to death of what happens next," Kevin admitted, though his voice was remarkably steady considering the circumstances. "But it's like that stupid metaphor about the cat in the box that Castle likes so much—its not really dead or alive until you get a peek inside, even though you know it can really only be one or the other."

"I'm guilty or I'm innocent," Kevin told him, with more certainty in his voice and his gaze than Javier had seen since the whole thing began. "It's one or the other, but I can't not _know_."

Javier looked away first, though he nodded faintly. He had to accept that, he knew. He just really wished it were otherwise. Javier finished with the cuffs, and for a moment neither one of them could manage to look at anything else. After a long, quiet while staring at the cold metal around his wrists, his partner spoke again.

"Javier, I want you to promise me something."

"No, Kev," he interrupted quickly. "Do _not _pull this kind of crap on me, I swear to God—"

Kevin shook his head.

"I'm not— Nothing like that," Kevin clarified quickly, stopping for a moment to recollect his thoughts. "Just... _Please_. Promise me you'll do _whatever _it takes to make sure no one gets hurt."

And that needed no clarification. Kevin needed to know that he—that _Reichardt_—wouldn't be allowed to hurt anyone.

"I promise," Javier agreed slowly, looking Kevin squarely in the eye, "but you know what? It's not going to matter. I am not letting you out of my sight. And _that's _a promise too, okay?"

"Okay," Kevin confirmed steadily, and the ferocious trust that Javier saw looking back at him made something twist in his stomach.

Glancing at the door, Javier couldn't seem to make himself move. The situation just begged...more. More _what_ he didn't know, exactly, but Javier refused to say any kind of goodbye. Kevin was coming back. Javier knew that—he just had to _remember _that he knew that. When he finally stood, Javier slapped his partner's shoulder, the casual gesture startling Kevin faintly. Any other time, his surprised expression might have been funny.

"See you _soon_, Kev."

Kevin managed a short nod, and Javier offered a measured smile. Then he stepped out into the hall, letting Peter Petrelli in to do...whatever the hell it was the man was going to do to his partner. Javier had to take a deep breath before joining the others in the observation room. His sanity was teetering just close enough to the edge that the enclosed space might have tipped him over completely.

Entering the booth, Javier frowned as he squeezed past the man who had arrived with Petrelli.

_Gabriel_.

Apparently Gabriel felt he had a stake in Kevin's well-being. Javier wasn't sure how he felt about that. There was something unsettling about the man, something Javier hadn't felt around any of the other specials he'd so far encountered.

Javier remembered watching uneasily from the window as Gabriel had spoken with his partner. Whatever they had talked about, it had somehow convinced Kevin that he had to do this. Javier's feelings on _that _subject were much less of a mystery. Of course, Javier hadn't been the only one attentive to that conversation. Bennet had stood very close by, watching with a focus so narrow it could almost have cut the glass. It had brought to his mind a portion of the future he had glimpsed, when Agent DiNozzo and his partner had exchanged words concerning Bennet's issues with someone of the same name. While it was entirely possible that they had been talking about another Gabriel, he doubted it.

Like Bennet, Javier was beginning to lose faith in the concept of coincidence.

As he passed, Gabriel cast him a speculative glance that somehow managed to seem both surprised and knowing. Javier didn't know how to interpret it, so he tried to put it out of his mind. He resolved to be wary around the man, however. It didn't take a detective to guess that if the guy somehow made _Bennet _uneasy, Gabriel wasn't someone to be taken lightly.

Taking another slow breath, Javier set his back to the wall, letting it support him as he watched Petrelli settle into the chair across from his partner. Seeing Kevin sitting there on the wrong side of the table, anxious and in chains, only served to heighten the painful surreality of the situation they found themselves in. It was like a nightmare. Javier's only consolation was the dubious mercy of knowing there had never been anything he could have done. It was a no-win scenario, but one which had been hanging over their heads for as long as they had known each other. And, while his own unusual circumstances made it impossible for Javier to say he hadn't seen it coming, at the very least he could accept that, if he still hadn't found them a way out of this situation eight years from now, there wasn't one to be had.

Distracted by the storm of dread and confusion in his mind, Javier gave himself credit that he didn't flinch when Peter Petrelli's voice buzzed from the speakers inside the booth.

"When I start," Peter said, "I want you to close your eyes and think about a place you feel safe and relaxed. Talk to me about it. It should be place that belongs to _you_. Some memory Reichardt wouldn't share."

Kevin looked at the other man, eyebrows raised with vague, skeptical surprise.

"You want me to find my happy place?" Kevin said, amusement leaking into his voice despite the tension. "Are you serious? Then what? Do I find my power animal and slide?"

Javier wasn't surprised when Castle let out a startled snort, and Peter let out a soft, sympathetic laugh of his own.

"If it worked for Edward Norton…"

Javier couldn't see Peter's face as he said it, but his partner managed a feeble smile. Kevin lifted his eyes to the mirror past Peter's shoulder, though whether it was his reflection he was searching out or those he knew lay behind it Javier couldn't begin to guess. Then, readying himself with a slow breath, Kevin closed his eyes.

"Uh, home, I guess?" Kevin said, uncertainly. "My apartment, I mean. I've been there for about…maybe four years, so I'm pretty sure—"

Kevin cut off, and Javier could see the confusion writing itself over his features again. While a large part of his past had been laid bare to them, it was still uncertain for how much of the life he remembered it had actually been _him_.

"Go on," Peter encouraged gently. Kevin wet his lips, nodding before he continued.

"It's kind of small. I mean, it's not _ridiculous _but I could probably do better on a detective's salary. It's actually got a decent view, though—nothing you'd put on postcards, but it's a nice street. I think I'd rather have that than a few extra square feet. I think it's cozy, though whenever I say that Jenny always rolls her eyes, and Javier just thinks I'm nuts."

Halting and uncertain at first, the words gradually came more freely, and Kevin even ticked a faint smile at that last.

"It's not even as small as they make out, it just looks that way because of the couch. It's a bit over-sized, but it's comfortable. Broken in." Kevin smiled lightly. "I picked it up off the curb. Roadkill recycling offends Javi's delicate sensibilities, but its a perfectly reasonable strategy for interior decorating."

Javier found himself letting out a tense laugh in spite of himself.

"He made a big fuss when I first told him that, but he never had a problem with it before that, and it despite his protests it didn't exactly keep him from coming over after. I mean, we both know who has the superior roost where video games are concerned..."

Kevin continued on, but Javier found it difficult to focus on what he was saying. The pace of the words had begun to slow again, though not like before. They came out sluggishly now and there was an odd softness that had crept into his partner's tone that seemed oddly distant. Finally the words ran out and Kevin sat there, completely silent. The worried lines that had been etched into his forehead had smoothed as well, and his face was left almost entirely slack. Like he was sleeping.

And Javier hadn't even realized it, but a part of him had still been holding on desperately to a faint, tortured spark of hope. Hope that Petrelli might turn around and tell them that somehow this had all been some sort of bizarre mistake. But that final, tragic spark was ground out quickly by the unmistakeable proof of what Javier saw next. His partner rocked forward as a light shudder passed through his body, and then—

And then the small cut on Kevin's forehead _healed_.

The sight left Javier speechless and numb, and a few others in the booth stirred as well. He heard Kate's gasp, and Bennet's posture stiffened visibly, and Castle was left staring, wide eyed. And in the interrogation room, Peter finally turned around to look at them through the mirror.

"I've got him."


	19. Interlude 8—December 17th, 2010

**_Peter—Manhattan, New York; December 17th, 2010; 11:53 PM_**

It was always a strange sensation, sinking into the consciousness of another.

Peter remembered his desperate invasion of Sylar's mind in search of his brother's ghost with an ironic degree of clarity. Motivated by grief and rage, the attempt had been ill conceived—at best—and time had allowed Peter to acknowledge its cruelty. Whatever punishment Sylar might have deserved for his crimes, what Peter's mother had done to him was wrong. Nothing would bring Nathan back, and what his mother and Matt Parkman had inflicted upon his killer in trying to maintain a sadistic illusion had been in its own way as insulting to his brother's memory as it had been to Sylar himself.

It had been Rene's ability Peter had used that night, and the memories in Sylar's head had almost felt like living things, retreating as if in terror from the foreign grasp seeking mercilessly to drag them from where they lived...

By contrast, his later descent into the nightmare Parkman had woven to keep Sylar contained had been less disturbing and far more simple. Sylar's native ability made his mind more difficult to manipulate than most, but telepathy was a power Peter was familiar with, one he had used several times in the past. In any case, Matt had already done most of the work of tearing down Sylar's defenses for him.

Of course, it had been easier getting in than getting himself and Sylar _out_...

Though in reality it had lasted mere hours, from his perspective, Peter had lived five _years _trapped with Sylar inside a nightmare vision of the killer's worst fear. Then, Peter had thought he understood the false world keeping them prisoner, but it had taken him that long to realize that it was his own baggage preventing their escape. That subconsciously his hatred and distrust of Sylar—and his inability to move on from his brother's death—would not allow Peter to let him loose on the world. In those five years Peter had learned a lot about the man behind the monster, and of the manipulations that had helped that monster come into being. Peter had slowly come to terms with the idea that Sylar really did want to change...

Even more slowly, Peter had been forced to acknowledge that Sylar might even be capable. He just couldn't do it on his _own_. What he felt for Sylar...it wasn't forgiveness, not exactly. He wasn't sure that they could be called friends. Still, the ties they shared were based on understanding and trust.

Trust above all else, because in those five years Peter had been made keenly aware of why the nightmare had taken the form it had. At first glance it had made perfect sense, after all Claire had confessed to suffering similar nightmares. Yet while anxiety about his acquired immortality might have explained that empty city—an empty _world _in which no one but Sylar was left alive—Peter had come to believe the truth was more complicated. Sylar's hell had been a world in which he was utterly and completely alone, and knowing what he did now Peter thought that reflected the killer's past more than it did his fears of the future.

In one way or another, everyone in Sylar's life had abandoned, rejected or betrayed him. Sylar had no one—no one but _Peter_, and Peter was aware of the deadly seriousness of the responsibility now resting on his shoulders.

The trap Matt had woven had been more than effective in confounding his and Sylar's escape, but the actual mechanics behind it were remarkably uncomplicated. All it needed was an image or thought from the target's mind that already held significant power over them, then you simply gave it prominence. Once this was done, if the idea was strong enough, the target would practically hold _themselves_ prisoner. Simple. _So _simple, the trap had easily caught Peter as well by mistake, and certainly simple enough for Peter to reverse engineer the process...

And repurpose it with a much more pleasant experience in mind.

Though to his own perception Peter stood within the scene, he wasn't truly a part of it. The setting had come into being slowly as Detective Ryan had described it, details trickling into Peter's view from memory that words would have left behind. The apartment did seem small, but as Ryan had said not overly so. Controllers in hand, Ryan and his partner sprawled side by side, ties and coats shucked carelessly over the back of the overstuffed couch. Their shoes had been kicked off underneath the low coffee table resting in front of them, the smudged glass surface almost invisible beneath the clutter of greasy cartons and empty bottles.

He supposed as "happy places" went, it wasn't half bad, if a little mundane.

It struck him oddly that, given the choice of any time, place, or fantasy, Ryan would chose something so apparently routine, but then Peter had asked the detective for a memory of safety, of security and contentment. Those emotions were so strong in this place—in this moment—that even Peter could feel them. Even without that, Ryan's face would have been all the proof he needed. The man's expression was so free of the anxiety and fear Peter had seen in his short acquaintance with the man that he could almost imagine he was looking at a different person entirely. He briefly wondered if there was more to it than what he was seeing, but this unguarded glimpse of these two strangers' lives already had Peter feeling like a voyeur. Rather than pry any deeper, Peter took just a moment more to check the dream for cracks, then turned and stepped out the door of the illusory apartment.

The hallway he stepped into definitely wasn't the one he had been expecting, however. In fact Peter was surprised—and disturbed—to find it alarmingly familiar.

Back when the Primatech facility in Odessa was still operational, Level 5 had been home to some of the most dangerous specials imaginable. Sylar had been held prisoner there on more than one occasion, along with countless others whom the Company had defined as a threat—including Peter himself. The barren corridors of Level 5 still inspired a sick feeling of dread, and for a moment Peter thought his own memories were trying to trap him as they had before. Then the sound of a lock engaging forced him to turn. The detention cell was all hard cement and naked pipe, just as Peter remembered. Through the large glass pane opening into the cell he could see Detective Ryan beside the mental facsimile of his partner, still sitting on that ragged red couch, oblivious to the way his surroundings had changed.

The sudden and unanticipated shift threw him a little, but Peter still had the rest of his job to do. Now that he had effectively shut Ryan away, he needed to find who he was looking for. Peter spared one final glance at Ryan before he turned down the hallway.

He hoped to God he was doing the right thing...

There were other cells, of course. As he passed, Peter caught a glimpse into a few of them. Each seemed to hold some element similar to the one he had left: pieces of life on display within the cold, grey rooms, stolen from context.

In one, a Ryan who appeared to be in his early twenties stood with a serious-looking man in his early thirties. He was dark complected, with a short beard, and if forced to guess Peter would have placed his origins somewhere in the Middle East or India. The two stood very close together, and Ryan was adjusting the collar of the man's shirt with a bright smile. Though his solemn expression stayed firmly in place, Peter thought he saw the man's eyes soften just a little.

In another Peter saw Ryan sitting at a cluttered desk. He was listening to a short, grinning man in his early forties who was perched against its edge. Though Peter couldn't hear their conversation, he saw that the detective wore an indulgent smile. Both men were in uniform, police blue, but the style struck him as oddly out of date. Upon a second glance Peter realized with a stab of unease that the name on the young officer's tag _wasn't_"Ryan".

Finally, in one, Ryan—_Reichardt_, Peter corrected after a moment's thought—sat at a table set for dinner. Sitting with him at the table were a woman and two boys. The woman appeared to be in her late thirties, blonde haired, blue eyed and still very lovely. The older of the two boys looked like he was in his middle teens, while the youngest was probably about ten. Judging by their mode of dress, the scene had to be decades old... And there was smile on Reichardt's face here as well, but Peter saw a note of something else in his eyes, sad, guilty, and touched with regret. Peter's earlier voyeuristic feeling returned, stronger for having seen it.

From then on he did his best to avoid further glimpses into the cells as he continued on his way.

Though the halls he traveled were empty, they rang with echoes that ricocheted unnaturally against the stark walls. Peter heard his mother's voice, and his father's. He heard Adam Monroe's voice, raised in outrage, and Charles Deveaux's rich laugh, and Claude's voice laden as always with its bitter sarcasm. He heard other voices he didn't recognize, other languages he didn't understand. Some he managed to identify—Arabic, Japanese, French, what he thought might have been Russian, and German wielded harshly in the sharp, angry tones of argument.

There was nothing significant about the door he was lead to, just a faint pull against his awareness. Yet when he opened it everything changed.

Momentarily blinded by the sun, Peter was left blinking as his eyes adjusted to the sudden, harsh light. He stepped through the door into a ruined landscape. Dust stung his lungs and his eyes, clinging to his skin in a thin film where the heat of the air had squeezed sweat from his pores. So broken was everything that it took him several disoriented moments to realize he stood on a city street, the familiar angles disguised by chunks of rubble and layers of debris. A gust of wind thinned the smoke and dust that had obscured his vision, and Peter caught an indistinct glimpse of a human figure standing in front of him.

Peter approached slowly, cautiously, and the figure resolved itself in front of him like the image developing on a photograph.

The light grey dust obscured the man's uniform, but Peter could see his badge glinting dully underneath. The tag pinned to his chest read "Ryan", but when he looked into the man's eyes—face coated with dust and grime and streaked with tears—he knew immediately that wasn't really who he was seeing.

"_Sieben, acht, neun, zehn_..." Konrad said, the words a worn-sounding sing-song as he stared blankly ahead into the wreckage around them, "_Augen auf, ich komme_..."

Then he turned to look at Peter, almost expectantly, and Peter found himself slightly startled by a faint sense of recognition he hadn't felt with Ryan, as if they had met before. And Peter realized, if Konrad and his mother really had been as close as Bennet claimed, it was even probable that he had...

"Well you found me, Peter," Konrad said quietly, a faint, tired smile twisting at the corner of his mouth. "Now what?"

* * *

**Translation:**  
"_Sieben, acht, neun, zehn_..." - "Seven, eight, nine, ten..."

"_Augen auf, ich komme_..." - "eyes open, I'm coming..."

(these are words spoken while playing hide-and-seek)


	20. Interlude 9—February, 1959

**_Konrad & Adam—Brooklyn, New York; February, 1959_**

Konrad wasn't sure how he had managed to stay calm for so long. In the back of his mind he thought he should be feeling...something. He should feel angry, cheated, betrayed_—anything_—but all he really felt was numb. Even Adam's faint amusement, greeting him smugly as Konrad had opened the door to find the other immortal standing on his hotel doorstep, had failed to phase him in the slightest. Konrad wasn't unaware of how pathetic he looked, of course...

He was simply long past caring.

Konrad sat quietly on the edge of the bed as Adam moved around the small, cheaply furnished room, only peripherally aware of what the other man was doing. He didn't even look up from the abused rug until Adam pressed the glass of scotch into his hands. Konrad stared at it for a long, stupid moment before he finally took a swallow. The alcohol would do nothing for either one of them, but the soft burn still felt good in his chest. He chose to let himself blame that instead for the tightness in his throat, the sting in his eyes.

"It isn't..._fair_, Fritz," Konrad said eventually, slowly, looking down into his glass. "How can she just cut me out of their lives like that?"

His fingers flexed tightly around the glass, and for a brief moment he thought about letting it break in his hand. And _there _was his missing anger, welling up from wherever it had been keeping itself hidden.

"Martin is grown enough to make his own choices," he allowed, bitterly, voice gaining volume and speed. "If he doesn't want anything to do with the man who's been a father to him his whole life that's one thing, but Sam is _my _son, and she has no right—"

"We could just take him," Adam interjected pragmatically, filling his own glass.

"Yes, we—" Konrad cut off, shaking his head once he actually registered his friend's words. "No."

Adam dismissed the rejection of his idea with a light shrug. He took a seat in one of the chairs by the room's small table, seeming almost bored with the situation. Like he was patiently waiting for Konrad to get over this upset and become interesting again. Adam had never put any real effort into disguising how tedious he had found Konrad's life with Sarah and their children. Clearly, there was no reason for that to change now.

"No," Konrad repeated softly, with a sigh. His anger had cooled, leaving him feeling small and empty. "That wouldn't be fair to him."

Setting the glass on the nightstand Konrad ran his hands over his face.

"It wouldn't be fair to Sarah," he continued breathlessly. "This isn't anything I don't deserve. I lied to her, Fritz. I've lied to those boys their entire lives..."

He and Adam had spent a year and a half in England after their supposed return "home" from the prison camp in Dresden. Finally, some itch of restlessness had compelled Adam to move on from there, making his way across the Atlantic to Canada. Konrad had chosen to follow, though he had stayed in Montreal for only a few months. It had been curiosity more than anything that had eventually drawn him south, toward the lights and excitement of the big city everyone talked about. He hadn't wanted to be seduced, but he had seemed to find a different language on every corner, a different world down every street, and Konrad had fallen instantly and hopelessly in love.

Twice, in fact.

Konrad had met Sarah during his first months in New York, when he had shown up at her father's watch shop in Brooklyn looking for work. She had been a smart, energetic young woman, with a gentle disposition...though occasionally emotional and prone to fits of temper. She had lost a young husband in the war, and though it couldn't have been easy raising their two-year-old son on her own, she had refused to simply let her father support her. Though she lived with her father in the apartments above the shop, she had even insisted on paying a modest rent for it from the money she made working at a grocery down the street.

While her father had constantly bemoaned her stubbornness, Konrad had found her enchanting.

Despite her independence, the pressure had been there socially for her to remarry. She had thought he was sweet enough. Konrad, meanwhile, had been head-over-heels for her, and overjoyed when she had accepted his proposal. Sam had been born two years later. They had been together for seven years when her father's failing eyesight had finally forced him to retire from his work, and the man had all but insisted the shop take his name now that it was his. Konrad had been honored...

Even though, by all rights, it hadn't really been _his _name.

He had been living as Dory Gray for more than twelve years, and right now every one of them felt like a waste. He cursed the name Adam had given him, cursed the fact that he had already met Sarah by the time he discovered the immortal's joke in giving it. If he had known sooner, he never would have continued to go by something so perversely fitting. Konrad had been twenty-three when he was injured and reassigned to Auschwitz, and he had looked young for it even then. Thirty-eight now, he didn't look a day older than he had that night he and Adam had fled. As he and Sarah spent their life together, the parallel with Wilde's well-known story had become a familiar joke.

Then, slowly, it had become a fact impossible to ignore...

While on its own the peculiarity of his age might have been forgiven he was also never sick, and of course Sarah couldn't in all their years together remember seeing him with as much as a paper cut... Finally, the day had come when she had looked him in the eye and asked him. Confronted with it directly he just hadn't been able to lie to her. Konrad had wound up telling her everything. Now Sarah knew the truth, not just about what he was but about who he had once been. And Sarah had never been shy about expressing what she wanted, so she had made it painfully clear that she wanted him nowhere near her or her family.

Now that life was over.

Losing it hadn't left him much. Dorian Gray had been a watchmaker like his father before him, a husband and the father of two sons. Without his shop, without his family, that man didn't even exist anymore. Without them he hardly knew who to be. He and Adam could have been having this conversation in any of a dozen languages, yet Konrad had stuck to English out of habit. Even the slight Mancunian accent which he had affected as Dorian still clung to his voice, the last tattered shreds of his old identity still surviving his exposure as a fraud.

"God..." The word escaped him hopelessly, as breath abandons one dying. "What am I even going to do with myself?"

"You'll doubtless find something," Adam told him dismissively. "Build a _new _life. Move on. If you believe for a second this was the worst that could have happened to you, you're being unspeakably _naïve._ And if you think that this is the worst that _will _happen to you, Kunz, then I doubt you'll last another century."

Konrad said nothing. After a long, thoughtful moment Adam let out a sigh, moving toward the bed to sit down beside him.

"My first wife's name was Helene," Adam said, sparing him a sideways glance as he took another swallow from his glass. "We were married in the mid-seventeenth century near Bad Berleburg in Germany. Our end was much like yours and Sarah's. I knew when I married her that I could not be killed, but not that I wouldn't age. We were together for twenty years before it became obvious. Still, when I confessed my secret she fled me thinking I was touched by the Devil."

Listening now, Konrad saw the faint smile at the corner of Adam's mouth, as if the memory amused him now more than anything else.

"And my last wife, Theresa..." Adam paused, taking another drink to cover his sneer. "Well, that was only a year ago, and the less said about the way that one ended, the better. But you shouldn't give up, Kunz. I've been married nine times, and they weren't _all _bad."

Slowly, Adam's smile grew into a soft, fond expression of which Konrad would have never previously thought the man capable.

"In 1786 I met Angelica. I took a chance on her, and when I told her the truth she didn't turn away. We had to travel from time to time to avoid suspicion, and after a while I was forced to pose as her grandson...but we were together for more than sixty years before she died."

"And my seventh, Diane... " Adam grinned. "I still like to return to the home we shared in Montreal, when I can. Ah, she was one of the good ones, Kunz. We only had twenty years together, and even that was almost over before it had its chance to start. Consumption almost took her from me the very year we married..."

Adam went on talking about the loves of his life, some of whom he had married though most he hadn't. Konrad did his best to listen. After all, he knew the man meant well. Yet all his stories seemed to succeed in was reminding Konrad of a brutal and bitter reality. The life he had to look forward to would be an unnaturally long one, and lonely. Even if one day he found someone like Adam's Angelica—someone willing to accept both his past and his changeless nature—whatever life they might enjoy together would still share that same, inevitable end. The cruel fact was that his friendship with Adam, such as it was, might be the only truly enduring relationship Konrad would ever have. A _friendship_, Adam had long ago taken great pains to assert, that would never be anything more...

Sensing his reminiscence was not having the desired effect Adam paused, casting Konrad a speculative glance.

"You should come with me on my next venture," Adam told him finally, standing. He set his empty glass aside. "You need a fresh start, and I think it would provide you the perfect chance."

"What kind of venture?" Konrad asked, though what he felt was less curiosity than it was wary apprehension.

"Right now this country's government has plans in motion to construct a facility out in some God-forsaken part of the desert," Adam said, smirking faintly. "A place for the study of...unique individuals."

Konrad's breath caught—or rather he caught _it _before it his breathing could run away into panicked hyperventilation.

His mind grasped emptily before he was able to focus on the room that he was in, because for a few brief seconds he hadn't been. Pulling back from his initial reaction, Konrad shoved the sudden memory of chill steel and spilled blood back into the unseen depths of his mind where it belonged. He fought the urge to do the same with the fresh, cold dread he now felt—just a little, just enough to think about things rationally—but he knew the temptation there was too great. There were too many things in his life right now he didn't want to feel or remember, and if he started down that road he might not be able to stop...

"A research camp," he finally managed. His voice sounded oddly lifeless, and his chest still felt painfully tight. "In America?"

Adam confirmed it with a faint noise.

"Honestly, Konrad, you didn't think your new adopted home was perfect, did you?" Adam said, sounding faintly amused. "I even hear a few of their prized researchers for this place are former countrymen of yours."

Konrad said nothing, refusing to rise to the bait. Anyway, there was nothing he _could _say.

"It seems Uncle Sam has learned of our existence," Adam continued, "or at least, those _like _us. I intend to be on hand to look over their shoulders and learn whatever it is they manage to learn about us."

"The way you were at Auschwitz," Konrad said, a little distantly. It wasn't a question, and needed no answer, though he finally did ask, "You don't think it can turn out any better, do you Fritz?"

And when Adam's smirk simply broadened it was all the answer Konrad needed. Not for the first time, he was disturbed by Adam's casual callousness. At times it seemed like the immortal barely acknowledged the short-lived others around them as human. By that same esteem, he often treated Konrad himself like a child.

"I...I'll _think _about it," Konrad told him hesitantly.

Adam nodded, though the smile had slipped from his lips turning into something mirthless and shark-like. Neither acknowledged it, but they both knew Adam had understood Konrad's answer as easily as if he had voice his refusal in any of the numerous languages they shared.

Conversation turned to other things for a while, though a chilly undercurrent lurked beneath its surface, and by the time Adam left Konrad felt strangely exhausted. Even the thought of undressing for bed felt like too much effort by half. Instead he lay down, clothed atop the bedsheets, letting his eyes roam the faded patterns in the peeling wall paper, letting them find meaningless pictures among the cracks in the ceiling. Anything to keep his thoughts from straying to the framed photograph of his family lying face down on the nightstand beside him.

His efforts were pathetically unsuccessful, and a different tightness constricted his chest squeezing the air from his lungs.

Once again, Konrad's entire life had been torn viciously from his grasp. Not for the first time, and he was painfully certain it wouldn't be the last. Still, shutting his eyes, Konrad forced himself to admit Adam had been right about one thing at least. He _would _need to find a new start. Create a new life for himself...

It wasn't as if he had any other choice.


	21. Interlude 10—March 17th, 1960

_**Konrad & Frank—Queens, New York; March 17th, 1960**_

"Me and Sharon would be happy to have you over any time, Richie," McNulty told him as they stepped into the locker room. "Just you say the word."

It wasn't the first time Konrad's new partner had tried to open their home to him. Actually, it probably wasn't even the tenth. In fact, at that moment they were coming off a very long, very difficult shift, and the topic had arisen at least four times since that same shift began.

"I know, Frank," Konrad said, answering the offer with a polite smile. "And trust me, I appreciate it. I just don't have the time."

The irony of those words did not escape him.

"C'mon, kid," his partner argued lightly. "I know you got your eyes on a shield, but that don't mean you have to put everything else on hold for the job. Trust me, that's _no _way to live."

Konrad let the diminutive slide with practiced ease. He'd been 'kid' or 'junior' to most of the instructors his entire time in the academy. While it had stung at first, in the end it was something he had been forced to get used to. At least now that he was through it 'rookie' had become much more common.

Regardless, he knew McNulty meant nothing hurtful by it, and the truth was that Konrad _was _grateful for the offer. In fact, part of him wanted more than anything to accept it. However there was another part of him—a part that was still bruised and hurting—which felt that letting anyone get close was too much of a risk. After all it wasn't much more than a year ago that his life as Dorian Gray had been torn to shreds, and a little less than a year since he had taken a new name.

He had to be smarter about things if he wanted his time as Richard Conway to last...

That meant more than just avoiding attachments. Konrad might only have ten or fifteen years to work with before people began to notice that he wasn't aging. Two years ago that might have sounded like a long time, but Richard Conway was more like Konrad than Dorian Gray ever had been. Conway was an ambitious young man planning his career, and even twenty years might not be enough to get him where he wanted. He would have to make detective young if he was going to make it mean anything before he was forced to move on once again. He had to keep his priorities straight.

Unfortunately, Francis McNulty wasn't likely to give up without a fight.

"A young guy like you shouldn't keep to himself so much," Frank continued, "its downright criminal."

Konrad tried to keep his face impassive as he shucked out of his uniform. He had an inkling where this was headed.

"_Criminal_," Frank repeated with a dramatic emphasis, "and as an officer of our lovely city's police force, I would be remiss in my duties not to invite you out for a bit of drinking."

As he buttoned up his shirt, Konrad made the mistake of glancing over. He found, to his dismay, that Frank's expression had turned exaggeratedly stern. The man looked absolutely ridiculous. Konrad was sure the effect was completely intentional.

"It _is _St. Patrick's Day, after all," Frank told him, as seriously as if the drinking he proposed really were required by law. And his face was just as solemn as he tacked the cheap pin to the front of Konrad's jacket.

Looking down at the pin, Konrad let out a faint laugh.

"I'm not Irish," he argued lightly, as if refuting the button's claim might somehow get him out of it. Frank simply tsked.

"_Everyone's _Irish on St. Patrick's Day."

Konrad couldn't help but laugh at that, shaking his head.

"God, Frankie, I swear you're such a cartoon sometimes," Konrad said. "With your Catholic school schtick and 'gift of gab'—and I'm _still _not convinced 'Leprechaun tossing' ain't something you just made up."

While the words might have sounded insulting, they were more of an observation than anything else, and as he half expected Frank simply seemed amused.

"One thing about stereotypes, though, Richie," Frank said with an exaggerated wink, "is that people rarely question them."

Konrad had to admit this was true. They had only worked together for a few months, but Konrad had seen right away how often people tended to underestimate his partner. Even Konrad was sometimes caught off guard by how canny his partner really was. However, it had never before occurred to him that Frank might play to their often foolish expectations on purpose. Now that he saw it, he couldn't help but wonder just how much of the simple blue-collar Irish bull that others saw was an act.

In his own case, Konrad had similar expectations working against him. After all, when people looked at him what they really saw was Richie Conway, the baby-faced rookie. If he attacked his goals with the single-mindedness he planned it was unlikely anyone would take him seriously. A difficult perception to fight, yet it might be possible to try and use it to his advantage.

Food for thought.

"So what do you say?" Frank asked, finally dropping the false face of seriousness to lift a pleading eyebrow.

Konrad sighed. He gave in.

"Yeah. Sure. Okay."

Frank flashed a broad grin. Reaching into his locker he drew out a six pack of beer.

"I thought you might eventually see it my way."

And that startled another laugh out of him. Smiling, Konrad accepted the bottle his partner opened for him. Frank opened one for himself, raising it slightly.

"_Sláinte,_" he toasted, with a grin

"_S__láinte is táinte,_" Konrad returned gratefully.

Richard Conway never did make detective—hell, he never even came _close—_but years later Konrad could never bring himself to regret it. And he would remember that particular night fondly for a very long time. While no amount of alcohol would ever manage to phase him, for the first time the weight he had carried on his shoulders since losing Sarah and the boys had felt just a little bit lighter.


	22. Interlude 11—August 1968

_**Konrad & Charles—Queens, New York; August 1968**_

"So, are you going to tell me what happened?" Charles asked.

It took Konrad several moments to pull his attention away from the bustling activity surrounding them. He was having enough trouble trying to piece together what happened in his own head, let alone answer that same question for anyone else. His thoughts were too scattered for him to focus—on anything really—and the setting seriously wasn't helping.

"I—" Konrad took a slow, steadying breath, shutting his eyes against the harsh, bleaching lights. "Can it wait until I'm not standing half-naked in the middle of a hospital?"

Not that Charles Deveaux wasn't very good at what he did, but unnoticed or not Konrad felt horrifically exposed. It was more than just the fact that, at that moment, he was dressed in nothing more than a stolen lab coat which barely reached mid-thigh. His nerves felt...raw. Like his skin had been removed and there was nothing between him and the rest of the world. He blamed it on the smell of disinfectant. That smell seemed to push its way past all his usual efforts to keep himself contained, tugging painfully at the loose threads of memory that threatened to unravel his composure. Normally Konrad would shove those memories back into the dark parts of his subconscious, but things were confused right now, off balance. It was taking him much longer to return to any kind of equilibrium, and for now that left him open to things creeping up on him out of the hidden places they were normally kept.

Really, it was all Konrad could do at that moment not to give in to blind, ruthless panic.

Charles seemed to sense that, either conventionally or in his own unique way. Konrad had difficulty interpreting the soft noise he made, but whatever it signified it clearly wasn't an argument, and the younger man led him slowly out of the building. It was dark outside, and Konrad realized he had no idea of the hour. In any case, though summer was getting late the air was still warm in spite of the breeze that tickled the backs of his calves. Closing his eyes Konrad took a deep breath letting the sounds of the city seep in and fill him. He let them anchor him reassuringly in the proper place and time, and when an ambulance came screaming into the receiving bay Konrad managed not to jump or flinch. He followed Charles to the car, not wanting to watch the paramedics unload their damaged cargo.

Still, though the anxiety was beginning to pass, once he had slid into the passenger seat and shut the door behind him several moments rolled past before he realized the car wasn't starting. Konrad turned to find Charles staring at him expectantly.

"I thought you couldn't die?" Charles asked finally when Konrad's blank stare was all that answered his own.

"Well I didn't, obviously," Konrad said, affecting an indifference that he in no way felt.

Charles gave him a long look. At first Konrad thought he was merely unappreciative of the observation, but what he saw in the other man's eyes was more focused, searching.

"What?" Konrad finally asked, unnerved by the scrutiny.

"Just tell me this wasn't..." Charles trailed off, uncertainly.

"Wasn't what?" Konrad asked.

A beat passed before Konrad managed to decode the seriousness and concern in the other man's expression and come up with the answer on his own.

"Wait," Konrad said, feeling a little stunned as it dawned on him. "You think I tried to kill myself."

Charles shifted in his seat

"Look," Charles said, turning to stare out the windshield, "I don't like prying in on friends, but sometimes I can't help what I see or hear. And I know—"

Charles bit off the end of his sentence, seeming to think over his choice of words.

"I know you're not as _content _with your situation as Adam is," he finally said.

Konrad looked away. The telepath's observation was both critically understated and impossible for him to refute. However, as unhappy as Konrad so often was with his _situation_, as Charles had put it, his displeasure at present stemmed from having had yet another life which he had come to enjoy taken away from him. Though he may not have achieved the goals with which he had begun that life, in spite of the ugliness and the danger he had encountered on the job Konrad had felt more at home—more at _peace_—during his time as Officer Richard Conway than he ever had as the family man, Dorian Gray. Konrad would _never _have chosen to end that prematurely.

Staring at the same empty space outside the car, Konrad briefly debated whether he should try to explain this latest...misadventure. He supposed he owed Charles that much for his help, and there was little enough for him to lose at this point.

"It was a _bank robbery_," Konrad finally supplied, letting his head fall back against the seat. "They had hostages. One of them was woman. Young. Dark hair, dark eyes, real pretty."

He paused, hesitating before he released a sigh, dropping one final pertinent detail.

"And she was pregnant," he added quietly.

In the back of his mind, he could almost hear Adam sniggering, and Konrad was glad the other immortal wasn't there to hear it. Honestly, the story couldn't have sounded more contrived if he actually _had_made it up. Beside him, Konrad heard Charles echo his sigh, leaning against the steering wheel and rubbing his eyes.

"Jesus."

"I had to, alright?" Konrad said briskly, plowing quickly ahead through his account. "It was a long shot they'd even take the trade, but the gunman was sweating, and I could _tell _he didn't want her on the end of his gun any more than I did."

When he dared a glance at Charles, Konrad realized he was so used to Adam's scorn that he was almost surprised when the telepath merely nodded his head. Konrad paused, taking a deep breath and dragging his fingers through his hair. He felt them snag on the blood which had dried at the back of his head, turning soft almost-curls into crusted, gummy tangles.

"Shit..." Konrad breathed, realizing, "I don't even know how it went down after I—"

"After you _died_," Charles interjected, his voice calm but not absent a certain horror.

"I guess," Konrad allowed after a moment. It wasn't like he could call it anything _else_. "I just can't understand why it took me so long to recover. It's _never _taken that long..."

Of course, he had never been shot in the head before. Carding through the gory mess at the back of his head, his fingers touched the spot, now fully healed, where the bullet had entered his brain.

"You make it sound like you die a lot," Charles said uneasily.

Konrad let his hand drop to his thigh. Things were still scrambled in his head—so literally that his stomach churned at the thought. He took a shaky breath before mustering an answer.

"It's been a while," Konrad admitted, as if it mattered, "but let's just say there's more to my fear of hospitals than unwanted questions."

And now he had fresh new fodder for his existing nightmares...

Stuck trying to make any sense of what had happened, Konrad thought it was like he had just been _switched off_ until the bullet had been removed. Once that chore had been done he seemed to have come to as quickly as normal—so much as the word ever applied to him—though he had definitely been...confused. In fact Konrad had knocked out the coroner as soon as he had woken. And he had felt bad about that from the moment he had come to his senses, but for a few terrifying moments Konrad had thought he was back _there—_back in Poland, and still subject to Mengele's frightful ministrations.

As if his entire life between then and now had been nothing more than another of the safe illusions he had used to conjure in his head...

Konrad had always made a point to keep Adam's current contact information memorized in case—well, in case any strange emergency like this ever popped up. Unfortunately, the last Konrad had heard the other immortal was in Los Angeles. Thankfully however, after Charles and Kaito had tracked him down following their brief encounter during the riots, Konrad had had the foresight to add their company's number to his mental roster as well. Fortunately for him, Charles had still been in New York, and the young man's ability had been perfectly suited for digging Konrad out of the mess he had found himself in.

Unfortunately, it was well suited to digging out other things as well.

"Christ..."

From the look on his face, Charles must have seen or felt some of the things that had gone through his head upon waking—the memory of a faded memory of Konrad's deepest hell. Though Konrad had only the loosest understanding of what the man's ability allowed him to experience, he figured Charles couldn't have seen far past what he had suffered. Otherwise, Konrad was sure, there would be less sympathy in his horrified expression than disgust.

Silence settled in for a long moment, and while Konrad might have been content to let it stay, a thought occurred to which forced him to break it.

"I think—" Konrad paused a moment, considering his phrasing. "I think it might be best if this thing stays between us."

Charles looked at him, his expression turning apprehensive in a way that made no sense unless the telepath knew what was in Konrad's mind already.

If Adam was aware that they suffered a weakness like the one that had left Konrad incapacitated then he had kept the information to himself because he wasn't comfortable with anyone else knowing it. If Adam _didn't_ know, Konrad couldn't imagine him being happy of the discovery. When it came down to it, Konrad didn't think he needed to worry that Adam would do anything to _him_ in order to keep that secret safe, but for Charles, or Angela, or Kaito—_especially _Kaito—it might be a very different story.

He would think of something else to tell Adam, Konrad decided. They were all good kids, and the last thing he wanted was to put any of them at risk.

As far as _he_ went, Konrad supposed Adam may have had fair motivation in keeping that weakness hidden. After all, Charles hadn't been entirely wrong. In fact, had he been handed this new information any other way Konrad could think of several times in his life when he might have been tempted to make use of it. It was different learning of it the way he had, however, and Konrad realized with a small sting of surprise just how afraid he had been. Surprise not because he had felt fear—there were plenty of things in this world that terrified him—but because he had been, for the first time in decades, afraid for his _life_.

If he were ever offered the chance to grow old and die, Konrad still thought he would take it in a heartbeat, but as far as suicide was concerned... No. His long life wasn't a hardship to him because he wanted to die.

It was a hardship because he wanted a chance to really _live_.

And once more the bell had rung on the closing of a life, leaving Konrad to contemplate the beginning of a new one. Yet perhaps his next life needn't be subject to the same limited expiration date.

"So, that company of yours," Konrad asked. "Does your offer still stand?"

Sitting up straight in his seat, Charles nodded.

"Of course, Richard."

"Konrad," he corrected.

"Pardon?"

"My name," Konrad said. "My _real _name."

It felt so strange saying it after so many years—it had been decades since anyone but Adam had called him by his name.

"Konrad Reichardt."


	23. Interlude 12—August 1968

_**Konrad—Manhattan, New York; August 1968**_

"He's presented to us in the beginning as a policeman," Konrad explained with a soft smile, "and the detective is the one person you never suspect in a mystery story."

The girl considered his words for a moment before her nose crinkled attractively. Well, perhaps _girl _was a bit uncharitable. It was possible she was in her mid-twenties, though certainly not older.

It was the closing party for her troupe's production of Agatha Christie's _The Mousetrap. _A mere understudy for the past several months, their final two weeks had been her first stepping into her role. While he was no expert on theater, as far as Konrad was concerned she had proven a success. He had no opinion of whether or not it suited the part, but the young actress had a vibrant energy to her that Konrad had found irresistibly charming. Still giddy from the rush of the stage, she had been more than happy to indulge his company. Surprised at her apparent confusion regarding the ending of the very play she had performed, Konrad had tried to explain it to her.

"I'll confess," she said after a moment, smiling with embarrassment, "I've never been fond of mysteries."

Konrad finally let it slide. Though she was clearly a very bright young woman, if the interest simply wasn't there then continuing on the subject wouldn't be worth the effort. Their conversation turned instead toward theater itself rather than the plot of the play that had just been performed.

"Have you ever done any acting?" she asked him with interest.

"I've played a few parts," Konrad answered simply, trying to keep a childish note of hurt bitterness out of his voice.

First Dorian Gray then Richard Conway...and the curtain was closing on the latter production as well. Soon he would be reprising his old role as Konrad Reichardt—though he could only hope it would be on a stage more brightly lit than the last.

She seemed to note the maudlin edge to even that short answer, and when he failed to supply more, rather than prying she continued with an easy smile.

"I've always had a passion for the dramatic," she told him. "I come by it quite naturally. I grew up in the shadow of Coney Island. As a girl I took center stage in my family's psychic act."

Konrad leaned back, taking a second look at her with a slight frown as some memory itched out of reach in the back of his mind. He had seen more than a few such acts in his time, the sort where articles were taken from the audience for the performer to identify. Yet something about this seemed achingly familiar...

"'Now, oh seer, what do your visions show?'" Konrad asked imperiously, bringing his fingers to his temple.

Her lips parted into a pleased grin. Then her eyes roamed from his, turning thoughtful. Following her gaze, Konrad realize she was looking at his watch.

"There was this man who used to bring is sons to the pier on the second Saturday of every month," she said, speculatively. "Like clockwork. I remember the younger boy was fascinated with my act. He always had to participate..."

Her fingers ghosted across the back of his hand as she reached out to touch his watch, as if confirming to herself the evidence of her eyes.

"He always borrowed his father's wristwatch. I don't know how many times I must have seen it..." Looking back at his face, she wore a faint, wondering smile. "You look...a _bit _like him. Was that you?"

Konrad drew his arm back slowly from her touch, a tug covering the watch with his sleeve. It was an old Sylar 1917 Field Edition, the one his father had worn during the end of the first war. Given to him when he enlisted, it had been the only piece of his family that he had managed to hold on to after he fled. He had always hoped to pass it along to Sam when he was older, but that opportunity had never arrived...

"Lots of fathers take their sons to Coney Island," Konrad answered neutrally, trying not to show how the memory had affected him.

She was mistaking him for his son, he knew, and Konrad was stunned to realize that he and Sam probably _would _seem about the same age at this point. His thoughts strayed to Sarah. As good as his promise to her, Konrad had never tried to contact his family, but even the promises he made to himself could never stop him from thinking about them. He often wondered if Sarah was still living in the same apartment in Brooklyn, or if she had managed to find a place overlooking a park like she'd wanted. Wondered if Martin had taken over the shop like he always said he would. Wondered what Samson had decided to do with his life...

Warm fingers startled Konrad out of his speculation as she took his hand, turning it over in hers. Her fingertips traced the lines of his hand as a palm-reader would—passing lightly over a lifeline which appeared no different from any other—but her eyes were on his face, meeting his.

"I sense...that you're very lonely," she said.

There was a touch of humor to her sympathy, which somehow made it palatable, and he offered her an apologetic smile. Unfazed by his melancholy she returned the smile to him gently, leaning in for a kiss. He stopped her with a hand on her cheek.

"You know I can't stay."

Because he had told her that he was leaving New York the next day, though not where he was going or why. Tomorrow, Konrad would board a flight to Texas and join Bobby Bishop at the Company's new facility in Odessa. Catching her show had been his way of saying goodbye to the city he had loved so much these past twenty years. The city that had embraced him and become his home after the one he had known in Dresden had been destroyed.

Konrad hadn't told her that he was leaving because he had been gunned down in front of witnesses trying to stop a bank robbery two days ago. He should never have given her the name Conway, but this was the third life he had been forced to abandon, and he had wanted to say goodbye to that, too. From what he had seen, she would make up her own reasons for his leaving. Let her think he was dodging the draft or a gambler escaping his debt, whatever she wanted to believe. He just hoped she didn't read the papers too closely...

Raising her hand to his wrist she pulled his hand down gently, pushing forward in spite of his protests to claim her kiss regardless. Her lips tasted sweet from the colorful drink she had had.

"I know, Richard, but let's pretend," she said, smiling broadly as her voice took on a tone of melodrama. "Let's love a lifetime in a single night and pretend we have forever."

And Konrad realized, too late, that the same charm that had drawn him in made her invitation impossible for him to resist. Martha wasn't what he normally considered his type, but maybe right now her flavor of joy and excitement was exactly what he needed. Because he _did _want to pretend—pretend he was who she thought he was, that little boy who had been fascinated by her show when she was younger.

If he let himself forget who he was for just one moment of happiness, would that really be so wrong?


	24. Interlude 13—September 11, 2001

_**Konrad—Manhattan, New York; September 11, 2001**_

Dust choked his lungs as Konrad drew in another ragged breath. He had been wearing a mask when they first arrived, but he had long since let it fall down onto his chest. He didn't know how long he had been there, kneeling in the rubble, insensible to the heat, the dust and the danger.

At that moment it was beyond his capability to care.

He was aware of the movement going on around him, but the frantic sounds of activity were dulled, distant. Here and there a few scraps of sensation managed to penetrate—the smell of smoke, of burned flesh; the sharp, nagging persistence of pain in his hands—but the voices and sirens all fell away from him, muffled and indistinct.

It was the solidity of fingers gripping his arms that first began to draw him out of the state he had found himself locked in. He felt the mask being shoved back over his face, a tug as he was drawn to his feet. The feel of his arm being dragged over a pair of slim shoulders, his weight being supported by the solid presence beside him. His steps were unsteady, sliding in the litter of debris at this feet—ash, and plaster, and shattered concrete. While his vision was already blurred by the tears and grit that caked his stinging eyes, the daylight nearly blinded him.

By the time things started to regain some measure of coherency Konrad was sitting on the ground beside one of the response vehicles, propped against the wheel. A flashlight was being shone in his eyes by a man he didn't recognize. The uniform was hard to distinguish underneath the dust, but Konrad's dazed thoughts supplied that he was probably an EMT. The man turned his head, and Konrad couldn't make out any words or see his mouth behind the face-mask, but he thought the man might have been answering someone's question. And then he stepped away, replaced by a face Konrad _did_ recognize.

"Ryan, what the everliving _fuck_?" Maxwell asked, her voice finally managing to carry through to him.

As plain as the words were, it was hard for Konrad to make any sense of them. His partner's tone was sort of frustrated and disapproving, but all he saw in the eyes staring down at him over her mask was concern. Then again, he couldn't quite understand his _own _words either as they came spilling out to answer her—a chaotic and rambling sort of nonsense forming whenever the air in his tortured lungs managed to escape as anything but a damaged sob.

"_Alles_..._alles tot_...broken. Burned." Konrad swallowed around his words, tasting ash. "_Mutti_..."

Maxwell squatted down next to him, gripping his shoulders again and shaking him a little. His head swayed, thudding gently against the hard metal behind him.

"Ryan? Focus, for me, okay? Damn it, you're not making any sense..."

Konrad closed his eyes, trying to do as she asked and piece his thoughts together.

"Dead," he choked out, finally. "They're all dead and— God, I can't, I just— I _can't_."

His face felt hot inside the filtered mask—he could barely breathe. He couldn't breathe _without _it, but he felt stifled and wound up fighting his partner as she tried to stop him from tearing it from his face. It was only once he succeeded that he realized the problem wasn't the mask or even the dust surrounding them, just that he was breathing far too rapidly for any of the air to reach his lungs. He tried to slow it down, using an ability he had acquired long ago to dial back the adrenaline, to regulate the pace of his heart and try to place the grief and horror he was feeling at a safer distance.

"Who, Kevin? Who is dead?" Maxwell asked once he had managed a few productive breaths.

She seemed to have given up putting the mask back on him, but was kneeling in front of him, eyes intent.

"My mother," Konrad answered her, brokenly. He leaned forward and spat out a mouthful of grit onto the ground between his legs, dragging an arm over his face. "God, my mother and father, my sisters...all of them. There's nothing left."

Maxwell stared at him for a few moments before capturing his face in her hands so that his eyes met hers. With the insanity going on in the background she seemed unnaturally solid, like she was the only thing in the broken landscape around them that was real. Part of the problem, Konrad realized, was that he wasn't sure where he was—_when_ he was. He couldn't quite remember. He had to focus...

"Kevin, your mom lives in Buffalo," Maxwell said. "She's _fine_. Your sister Stacey...didn't you just tell me the other day about that kid of hers? Baltimore, right? They're fine too. They're all fine."

Konrad tried to shake his head—none of what she was saying was true—but her hands held him firmly in place.

"Say it Kevin," Maxwell said. "Say it with me. They're all _fine_."

Konrad knew that he was confused, that his family wasn't here—_had never been_ _here_—but something was wrong, and he felt like he was breaking inside. It was just so hard for him to _focus_. He needed something to hold to, to keep him anchored against the black sink of past despair that had come flooding up when his barriers had broken. It had all been spilled out in front of him, and even his attempts at using that old ability to put things back in the dark where they belonged couldn't seem to shut it all away fast enough...

Maxwell was all he had. And as she begged him to repeat the pretty lies he had been feeding her for as long as Kevin Ryan had been her partner, for a moment Konrad wished with all his heart that he could believe those lies himself.

"They're fine," Kevin said finally, shutting his eyes as he repeated her words obediently. "They're fine, they're fine, they're all fine, they're home, they're safe..."

He felt Maxwell let go of his face, hand dropping down to squeeze his shoulder gently. Kevin finally managed a shaking breath, opening his eyes to look up at her, nodding vacantly.

"They're... God, they're fine. Jesus, Max, I don't—"

And the confusion was still there, his thoughts all running crossways from each other, but finally Kevin's panic was beginning to die away.

"What happened?" he asked her, breathlessly.

"You scared the _shit _out of me, rookie, that's what happened," Maxwell said harshly, though more than anything she sounded relieved.

Then Maxwell was prying his fingers open, and Kevin let out out a pained hiss. For the first time he realized that his hands were balled into fists, clutching the stems of some battered flowers. Roses. Only a few petals remained clinging to the heads, but he knew they were roses from the sting. His hands shook as they finally opened, and he stared for a moment at the ragged holes the thorns had left in his palms. They bled lazily, blood mixing with ash and dust, and he stared. He thought he must still be in shock—or whatever it was—because he stared at them with a detached surprise.

As if he had never seen himself bleed before...

"Jesus, Ryan, where were you?"

Closing his hands carefully Kevin tried to remember what had set him off. There was something there, like a word on the tip of his tongue, but it was receding quickly. Something about the heat and the dust, the blood and the burning roses. It _had_ to have been the roses, he realized distantly. The petals were a soft, deep yellow that was almost orange, like the ones his mother grew back home...

And there was something else there, but it was so faint, and Kevin failed to get a grip on it before it was gone completely.

Shaking his head dazedly, Kevin looked up at Maxwell who was looking at him with guarded care. He knew she had a protective streak a mile across, but was terribly careful not to show it. Seeing it now, Kevin couldn't help the faint smile that ticked at the corner of his mouth. Unfortunately, that only seemed to worry her more.

"Kevin," she told him levelly. "If you need to get out of this shit and get your head straight...no one's going to look down on you for that."

Kevin shook his head before he even took the time to consider it. Things were still broken. It was hell out there, and there were people who needed help. His own bullshit—_whatever _it was—would honest to God have to wait.

"No," Kevin told her, fighting more strength into his voice. "No. I'll...I'll be okay. Head on the job."

Nodding to himself, Kevin repeated the words, believing it.

"I'll be okay."

_**Kevin—Manhattan, New York; September 11, 2001**_


	25. Chapter Twelve: È Chūqù Le (鵝出去了)

**Chapter Twelve:** _**È Chūqù Le **_**(鵝出去了)**

* * *

_That was a simple riddle used by Zen Masters in the training of monks, Joe remembered. You take a newborn gosling and slip it through the neck of a bottle. Month after month you keep it in there and feed it, until it is a fullgrown goose and can no longer be passed through the bottle's neck. The question is: Without breaking the bottle, how do you get the goose out?_  
—_Robert Anton Wilson and Robert Shea, Illuminatus!_

* * *

Javier watched breathlessly as his partner opened his eyes. For a few moments Kevin seemed slightly confused, then his unfocused eyes fell on Peter. His expression changed to one that struck Javier as faintly surprised, and more than a little curious. His mouth opened, but whatever he might have been about to say was interrupted as Bennet leaned forward, speaking into the intercom.

"Peter, please step outside."

Kevin looked up abruptly at the sound of the voice, eyes narrowing slightly.

"Bennet?"

He shifted in his seat and the chains pulled short. Kevin looked down startled, apprehension dawning on his face. His expression turned guarded as he watched Peter follow Bennet's orders, vacating the room. For a moment Kevin was silent, his eyes searching the walls of interrogation room. Finally he sat back in his chair.

"Was that really Peter?" he asked casually, looking at his shackled hands without apparent interest where they rested on the surface of the table.

After a few seconds passed with no answers given, a faint smile pulled at his lips.

"He couldn't have been...what, more than fifteen the last time I saw him? He's grown up to look so much like his mother."

And dread settled in Javier's stomach, heavy and cold, as the understanding finally began to bleed through. So little had changed, and yet _everything_ had, and slowly the rest of his mind caught up with what he already logically knew...

That it really wasn't _Kevin_ in there anymore.

It wasn't a revelation Javier was given much time to process. When Peter entered the observation room, Bennet turned to speak to him.

"Listen, Peter, I think you should go home," Bennet suggested. "We've got what we need for right now, and it may be safer for you to be somewhere else in case anything goes wrong."

Though it was an effort to drag his eyes away from the man sitting in the other room for even a moment, once he did Javier managed to catch the glance that Bennet threw Gabriel's way. Even as distracted as he was by the monstrous turn his reality had taken, it was obvious to Javier who really held the agent's attention. And he didn't think either Peter or the subject of Bennet's scrutiny were unaware of it. Gabriel's eyes narrowed slightly, though his mouth quirked in a smirk that held more of smug satisfaction than it did offense. For his part Peter passed a dubious glance between his companion and—_Konrad_, Javier forced himself to think it—a hesitant uncertainty in his expression.

And then Peter's eyes found Javier's.

The atmosphere within the room changed subtly, the cramped silence charged with an energy that was almost expectant. It almost felt as if Peter were looking to him for permission. The thought baffled him for half a moment before Javier remembered that this man had the power to read his mind. He could only speculate what Peter might have seen to grant Javier that kind of authority where Kevin was concerned.

Shaking off the stab of uncomfortable panic that the idea inspired, Javier managed to regroup and give Bennet's suggestion the thought it warranted. He didn't like it—he _really_ didn't like the idea of sending away the only man who could bring his partner _back_—but he was forced to concede Bennet's point. If anything did go wrong, it was better to wait—hours, _days_ even—for Peter to return than to risk him coming to harm and never get Kevin back at all.

And he must have sensed Javier's agreement, because it was still unvoiced when Peter finally nodded.

"Let's go," Peter said to Gabriel, turning to rest a hand on his shoulder. "They'll call us when we're needed."

Gabriel's amused expression faltered almost imperceptibly, and Javier thought he seemed a little reluctant. He did not miss the glance the man spared his partner—or rather, the imposter that had appeared in his place—nor did Javier miss the downward turn of his mouth as his eyes passed over Bennet. Yet he gave a last look at Javier before he relented, one that apparently left him satisfied. And as both men turned to leave, Javier was surprisingly relieved to see them go. He had only just met the two men, but those brief interactions already left him feeling strangely naked.

At that moment, the question of just how deep their knowledge of him went wasn't a distraction he felt could afford.

"Hey, is he a telepath or an empath?" Konrad asked suddenly.

The idle question regained Javier's attention very sharply. Konrad still sat in the chair, face almost serene, showing the slightest bit of amusement. Yet, though it was very faint, Javier could see a subtle tension in his shoulders that made that good humor ring false, somehow. He was briefly reminded of Kevin's impressive composure when they were being interrogated by Hal Lockwood. Javier crushed that thought quickly, however, uncomfortable at having made a comparison. Though, as Konrad's fingers drummed a bored rhythm on the table, it was harder for Javier to ignore a sick sense of recognition.

It was the same gentle beat that numerous stakeouts and late night investigations had rendered _painfully_ familiar...

"It has to be one of those two," Konrad speculated, apparently unconcerned with being ignored. "I felt him in my head earlier..."

Konrad smiled then, brightly, _smugly_.

"Of course, if he's an empath then Bishop owes me sixty grand."

But, when he looked at the window as if seeking a some reaction to his words, Konrad's breath caught and the cocky expression was wiped from his face utterly. He stared at them—at his reflection, Javier realized belatedly as Konrad ran a hand over his face with a distant kind of shock. And of course that made sense, didn't it? Kevin was visibly in his thirties, but according to available evidence _Konrad _had been a youthful twenty-something for more than fifty years...

Konrad gave a sudden blink and then he sat back, chain pooling beneath his hands with a soft clatter. It was a very quiet few seconds that passed before he spoke again.

"Hello?" Finally it seemed Konrad's cool was slipping, and Javier could hear frustration beginning to creep into his voice. "I don't suppose you could at _least_ give me an idea of what year it is?"

Konrad's attention moved from the window as the door opened to his right.

"2010," Bennet answered, coolly, and to the point. And as focused as he'd been on Konrad, Javier hadn't even noticed either Bennet or Kate leaving until the agent entered interrogation.

Konrad seemed to consider this new information briefly.

"Maybe eleven years, then, since I went AWOL?" Konrad said, more as if thinking aloud than asking for clarification. "Though it looks like I'm missing eight or nine in the middle there, which is just a bit _worrying_, Noah, to say the least."

His tone was familiar, almost chiding, and Javier recalled that Konrad and Bennet had worked together, even if Bennet didn't remember it. From what he had experienced of the man so far, Javier couldn't imagine that disadvantage was something that Bennet, however adaptable he was, could possibly be comfortable with. Not that it showed outwardly. Bennet still displayed his usual impassive calm. He leaned casually against the wall beside the door—if casual was even a word one could apply to Bennet—regarding the other man in silence.

And if, in some bizarre scenario, Javier had been forced to interrogate his own partner, he could not imagine a better tactic to use than silence. Nature abhorred a vacuum, and so, always, had Kevin. Apparently, in this respect, Konrad was no different.

"I guess since you weren't supposed to know you should be looking I ought to be impressed you found me at all," Konrad mused with a slight shrug and a deceptively good-natured smile. "I mean, either I screwed up bad, or you really are as good as Ivan always said you would be."

That was when Kate walked in the door.

"Flattery will get you nowhere, Konrad," she said, and it was an impressive rendition of her usual, confident entrance when she did so. To anyone who didn't know her well, it wouldn't have seemed strained at all.

If there had been any doubt which category Konrad belonged to, it was quickly settled by his reaction. He paled visibly when he laid eyes on her, face turning blank with a kind of stunned horror Javier had never seen on his partner's face before this bizarre nightmare had begun. While Javier didn't understand the reason for the reaction, Kate managed to seem unmoved as she took the opposite seat. She slid a small piece of paper on the table in front of him.

Konrad stared at it for a moment.

"_Nandayo konoyarou,_" Konrad muttered, voice low in bitter anger, tossing a glance at Bennet that was just this side of murderous. "_Hitono kokorowo heikide moteasobiyagatte._"

Javier could only assume from Konrad's tone that it was some kind of accusation or insult, though Bennet showed little sign of affront.

"He says Bennet...very cruel to him,"a soft voice said behind him.

And Javier couldn't keep from jumping at the words, because while he may have missed Bennet's exit, he was pretty sure Hiro Nakamura hadn't been in the observation room a few seconds ago. Though turning around served to remind him of Castle's presence, and while the writer was visibly disturbed by the events playing out in front of them, he didn't seem to share Javier's confusion.

"I don't understand," Javier finally admitted, eyes turning back to the window where he watched Konrad study the paper in front of him.

"You read Nakamura Senior's letter, right?" Castle asked him. "It mentioned a woman Konrad knew from Auschwitz, and her granddaughter, Hana Gitelman?"

Javier nodded, recalling it vaguely.

"According to Bennet, Kate looks _just_ like her," Castle told him, sounding intrigued despite the tense situation. "So, Konrad thinks she's some ex-Mossad special who works for the Company..."

"And she's playing along," Javier said, finally getting it.

And something about that new information didn't quite compute—something about coincidences—but Javier wasn't given time to challenge it. It had taken almost a full minute, but Konrad finally managed to regain some of his composure. He reached out slowly to turn the paper around in front of him, leaning forward. Then Javier saw him run the back of his hand over his left cheek, smiling weakly, and realized it had to be the photograph from Auschwitz.

"You know, I miss that scar," Konrad said, voice touched by an unmistakable note of nostalgia. "I mean, I'm probably better off in the long run. They aren't exactly in style these days."

Konrad took a slow breath, finally managing to meet Kate's eyes.

"I still remember your _savta_," he told her softly. "We never really spoke, but she made it impossible to forget her."

He looked down at his hands.

"She used to have a nickname at Auschwitz, you know," Konrad said with a faint smile, though it was bland, and more than a little bitter. "I think it was Fritz—er, Adam—who started it. We used to call her _die Zahnfee—_the tooth fairy. It's...a funny story how she got that name."

Though from the twist of his mouth, Javier doubted Konrad really thought it was.

"The day she was transferred to the camp, I dropped my guard, and she kicked me in the jaw." He ran a thumb over his lower lip with an expression that, while gently abashed and almost fond, was nothing close to a smile. "Knocked out two teeth right in the front and loosened two more. Of course, I got those back too when Adam's ability manifested...

"And according to the rumors, I wasn't the first. When they first caught her back in Berlin, one of the soldiers lost not only a tooth but half his tongue."

Konrad looked up at her again, though his eyes didn't manage to meet hers for very long.

"You look..._so_ much like her," he said, forehead creasing faintly. "She had dark eyes just like yours. It sounds melodramatic to say it, but her eyes still haunt me sometimes. I mean, all their eyes haunt me, when I let myself remember, but hers...always. I don't know what it was, what...connection sparked between us, but something must have, because I took a piece of her with me after that day, and it's never left me..."

Konrad trailed off with a shake of his head.

"I'm sorry. I— I shouldn't be saying these things to you. _Slichi li._"

Kate straightened slightly, and though her back was to the mirror, Javier could imagine her poker face as she played her part.

"I've read some of the files about your time with the Company," she said, her voice carefully flat, all business. "You rode others pretty hard on their ethics. Was being a moral voice for the organization your way of addressing the guilt for your crimes during the war?"

"I was just performing a necessary service," Konrad said, managing a slightly smile, though the humor in it became something else in his eyes. "Guilt...is a useless emotion on its own. It doesn't heal anything, it fixes nothing. But helping others avoid making the same fatal mistakes? _That _I could try to do. Because it doesn't ultimately matter why you set your principles aside, whether it's for duty, science, survival—or even someone you love. The moment you do that, you're lost."

Shaking his head slightly Konrad gave a pained smile.

"It's something I understand more deeply than most."

"Science?" Kate asked, grabbing onto the opening, "You mean your frequent clashes with Dr. Zimmerman?"

"_Zimmerman_," Konrad said, his voice charging the name with undisguised dislike. "Jonas Zimmerman couldn't learn from the past to save his life. He would have been a child during the war—too young to have been involved, but old enough that the its lessons should have meant _something_. But he was always too quick to suspend ethics in the name of his research, and it didn't matter how many times I spoke of the..._inhuman_ things I'd seen men do in the name of science, he refused to see himself in them."

"To this day I don't know what Bishop and the others were thinking, hiring that man," Konrad said, frowning. "I'm sure he was a brilliant scientist, possibly the best in the field of genetics back in the day, but..."

Kate picked up the thread as he trailed off.

"I can see how exploring the potential of your ability would have been valuable to his research," Kate lead.

And Javier thought she and Bennet must have spent some time preparing some of this prior to the interrogation—most likely while he had been preparing Kevin.

"Zimmerman's _explorations_ were punishing," Konrad admitted, ticking another weak smile, "but I'd been through worse. And my participation wasn't exactly enthusiastic, but I did give my consent. Some of his other projects, though..."

"Such as?" Kate prompted when no more seemed forthcoming.

"Such as..." Konrad mused unhappily. His eyes dropped to the table as he worried some unseen mark on its surface with his fingernail. "Such as infants being used as guinea-pigs? Such as drugging specials with dangerous psychedelics to push the limits of their power? And what Bishop let that man do to his little girl—"

Konrad cut the words off just as they climbed to a plateau of anger Javier was shocked to hear in his partner's voice. Kevin had never been an easy man to anger, though once you got him there the sight could be impressive indeed. What Javier was hearing and seeing now, however, surpassed anything he had experienced from his partner.

And when Konrad's eyes lifted from the table, leveling all that emotion on Bennet...the effect was chilling.

"Well I don't have to tell _you_, do I Noah?" Konrad said. "You were there."

And Javier thought— It was subtle, but he saw Bennet's jaw tighten, his eyes narrowing briefly with some dark emotion before it was gone. For a man who seemed to hide so much so well, it was as dramatic as seeing him flinch. Not at the glare, though. No... Javier had the feeling that, whatever else Bennet might have forgotten, the events of which Konrad spoke remained crystal clear.

The display must have effected Kate as strongly as it had Javier, because it took her a long moment to regroup.

"And you pushed to have him removed from the Company," she managed after a long pause, clearly intent on steering the interrogation back on track.

Perhaps her intent had been a little bit _too_ clear.

"You're very interested in Zimmerman," Konrad pointed out with a frown, eyes narrowing slightly.

And his forehead creased with puzzled wrinkles before smoothing into an expression that Javier recognized quite well. It was the one Kevin always wore when he had figured out some clue that was crucial to their case.

"This isn't just the Company wrangling in one of it's wayward children," Konrad said, and though he said it very slowly it absolutely wasn't a question. "You're after something specific."

He seemed to reexamine Kate very carefully, and after a moment he shook his head.

"You're not Hana, are you?" Konrad asked her, voice turning surprisingly soft. His eyes softened slightly as well. "You're the other granddaughter. _Johanna's_ daughter."

And as Javier's mouth went dry, ears ringing faintly from his sudden shock, Konrad paused as though trying to remember.

"It's Katherine, right?" Konrad asked her carefully. "Katherine Beckett?"

* * *

**Translations:**

_È Chūqù Le_ - "The goose is out."

"_Nandayo konoyarou.__ Hitono kokorowo heikide moteasobiyagatte._" - (basically calling Bennet a soulless, manipulative bastard. Which...I don't think Hiro could repeat without having a coronary)

_"Slichi li."_ - "Forgive me."


	26. Chapter Thirteen: Thorns Outlive Roses

**Chapter Thirteen: Thorns Outlive the Rose**

* * *

_"Everything we've ever been on the way to becoming us, we still are."_  
—_Terry Prachett, __A Hat Full of Sky_

* * *

"You're the other granddaughter," Konrad said softly, eyes locked on hers. "_Johanna's_ daughter."

He pronounced the name with the soft "j" Kate had only rarely heard growing up. A startling detail, but one to which she barely had time to react as Konrad paused for a moment, face twisting like he was trying to remember.

"It's Katherine, right?" he asked her. "Katherine Beckett?"

Kate could not pretend, even to herself, that she hadn't been somewhat dubious about the whole plan. The situation itself was impossibly bizarre, and adding their deception into the mix only seemed to compound its existing strangeness. Neither would she pretend not to have felt a bit guilty. The memories they had been dragging up had been causing Konrad a great deal of pain, and it was difficult for her to see that pain written across Kevin's face. She had been forced to remind herself throughout the interview that this man wasn't Kevin, not really, but what her mind knew seemed insufficient to effect her feelings on the matter.

Now, Kate found herself fighting a mild sense of panic. She hadn't quite believed Bennet's claims about her connection to Konrad's past, not until she had seen the man's reaction. Even then she hadn't imagined that Konrad might know _her_, might know of her mother—or of her mother's murder. From the sympathy that shone in his eyes as he looked at her, it seemed that he did, and his next words settled the question entirely.

"That's right," he said quietly, nodding to himself. "I remember hearing you'd joined the NYPD after her death."

And he frowned, seeming to make another connection.

"You're— Is this an investigation?" Konrad seemed somewhat startled by the idea. "Am I a suspect in something?"

Kate tried to regroup after the sudden shift. A quick glance at Bennet gave her little in the way of cues to go on. That left only Konrad to work off of, and while instincts honed through numerous investigations were telling her plenty, the situation was so outside her usual frame of reference that she just wasn't sure.

"Look, I'm going to need more information if you want me to cooperate," Konrad said, and it was strange how...friendly his tone had become. "I'm...unsurprisingly lacking in details."

He almost sounded embarrassed.

It was enough for Kate to make her decision. She was no longer "Hana", and she already had Konrad's sympathy. There was no need for her to be his antagonist in this interview, and if he truly was willing to cooperate she would happily lend him every encouragement to that end. Kate wasn't used to playing the "good cop", but with Konrad's clear antipathy toward Bennet, in this case she figured she might as well take the role that had opened up to her.

"Jonas Zimmerman was murdered yesterday morning," she informed him, watching Konrad's reaction carefully. "His body was discovered in a building in Chelsea—a building I'm told you're likely familiar with."

Konrad inclined his head slightly as he took the information in. Kate didn't notice any tells indicating an attempt to falsify his reaction, but he seemed distressingly unmoved by the news. Though from their earlier conversation about the victim, this was clearly to be expected.

"Reed Street?" Konrad asked, matching the nod Kate gave him in confirmation. He made a soft noise, almost a laugh, continuing faintly. "Yeah, I can see how I'd rate as a suspect in that one."

He frowned suddenly.

"He's a long way from home though," Konrad observed curiously. "What about his daughter? Is Barbara okay? Have you notified her about her father?"

And Kate was somewhat relieved to see some actual concern there, at least.

"We're still trying to locate her," Kate said, avoiding giving him more as she had with Angela Petrelli, "but she is alive as far as we know."

Konrad gave a slight nod. He seemed to turn the facts over in his head for a bit. Finally he sighed and shook his head.

"I'm sorry...detective?" he ventured the title, giving another faint nod as he continued. "I wish I could help more, but I can't confess or deny a crime I don't remember."

The fact that Konrad so calmly accepted his possible involvement in murder was vaguely disturbing, and completely at odds with everything she knew about Kevin Ryan. Or _thought_ she had known. Before today she never would have imagined him capable of something like this. Part of her still wanted to believe that he wasn't, but she didn't understand enough about this—about how the two identities had become separated or exactly how much was shared between them—to truly know for sure.

"Perhaps you can help by telling us more about Zimmerman," Kate suggested, setting those doubts aside for now. "I understand you're working on information more than ten years out of date, but can you think of anyone else who might have wanted him dead?"

"A few dozen specials at least, if they somehow remembered what he did to them," Konrad answered sharply, before giving the question serious thought.

"Elle Bishop would probably be my first choice for it," he finally said, unhappily. "Most of Zimmerman's test subjects were catch-and-release, but Bob likes to keep his daughter close enough to watch her, which means by now she probably works for the Company. So there's a chance she could have learned about what happened, or recovered her memories through other means. And the tests Zimmerman ran to push the limits of her ability weren't simply painful, they also left her dangerously unstable, so if she did manage to remember, there is a real possibility she could have reacted violently."

"I'm afraid Elle and her father were both killed four years ago by an escapee from Level-5," Bennet said.

Kate didn't know what that meant, but Konrad must have, because he didn't ask for details, though he definitely seemed saddened by the news. He gave a slight nod, but was silent a moment before he continued.

"I suppose there's also that Haitian kid, René," Konrad said next, and a glance over at Bennet had him reacting to the other man's surprise. "Yeah, I don't really see it either, but the motive is there."

"Explain," Bennet said.

Bennet's tone was not simply skeptical, but somewhat defensive. Kate remembered a Rene being referenced in Kaito Nakamura's letter, but Bennet had never given any indication the name meant anything to him personally. Unsurprising, in hindsight, given that he had also successfully hidden any reaction to Kate's resemblance to Hana. She put the detail away with the other questions she would have for the agent later.

"Zimmerman disapproved of René's relationship with his daughter," Konrad said with a light smile, "or at least, he always did for as long as he managed to remember it."

Bennet gave a sharp blink, clearly surprised, and seeing it was so alarmingly unexpected it was almost comical.

"Ever since he was little more than a child, René's role at the Company has been to protect other people's secrets," Konrad said, life fading from his short lived smile, "and he is _very_ good at keeping them. But his job also means that he remembers what others do not, and people underestimate what kind of burden that is."

The smile had been replace by a weary expression of loss.

"Few enough people hold any memories of me that will stay," Konrad said, his voice turning soft and painfully fragile as he continued. "Take those away, and I might as well never have existed to them at all. René...took someone precious from me once, on Thompson's orders. It nearly crushed me. Angela wasn't very happy about it either, but there was no way for René to undo what he'd done."

Konrad paused, wetting his lips.

"We had...a sort of understanding after that," he said. "René agreed he would leave my memory untouched in others, and because of the way his ability worked, his own memories of me remained intact. He was...a lifeline. In return, I promised to hold onto _his_ secrets carefully."

"Anyway," Konrad said suddenly, shaking off his shift in mood with startling abruptness and returning to topic, "as far as I know their relationship ended when Zimmerman left the Company, but with René you never can know for sure. Though as far as suspecting him of killing someone...well, I think we both know he really wouldn't _need_ to."

Bennet nodded slowly, clearly disconcerted, though by exactly what part of the information Konrad had revealed it was impossible for Kate to guess.

"Anyone else specific you could name?" she asked.

"I guess there's one other possibility," Konrad said, hesitantly, eyes taking in Bennet with cautious consideration. "He never gave anyone at the Company his real name, but we knew him as Claude Raines."

Kate noted Bennet's posture shifted slightly. As always, the particular nature of his reaction was difficult to read, but Kate thought she saw a hint of his earlier defensiveness. And something else, very briefly, that she couldn't quite name. Anger? Guilt? With his attention so clearly focused on Bennet, Kate had little doubt Konrad had seen it as well. He gave little indication of it, however, as he continued to speak.

"I never knew what his specific issue was with Zimmerman," Konrad said. "It might have been connected to the experiments, or it could simply have been the incident with Elle rubbed him the wrong way. Thompson always suspected Claude was keeping a family hidden from the Company. I would have gone as far as to speculate he had a daughter, if I'd felt it was any of Thompson's business. And Claude's paranoia did turn out to be justified in the end."

Bennet's frown deepened at this, but Konrad seemed unaware. He paused thoughtfully.

"When Claude left the Company, Zimmerman was living in California," Konrad pointed out. "If Zimmerman was here in New York and spotted him—_doubtful_, but a possibility—Claude might have killed him out of fear that word might make it back to the Company."

"Claude _left the Company_ before you did," Bennet interrupted, a slight inflection drawing unusual attention to the phrase. His voice was hard, though Kate wouldn't have characterized the emotion in it as anger. "You knew he'd survived."

It was an accusation, not a question. Konrad sat back, examining Bennet for a moment before he gave a humorless smile.

"I knew Thompson was going to order the execution before he knew it himself," Konrad said, a bit smugly. "I even warned Claude you were coming. He was just crazy enough to stick around to see if you'd really do it."

Up to this point, if Kate had needed to choose a single word to describe Bennet, the best she might have come up with was _unyielding_. Yet, while his posture was stiff and his face as impassive as ever, when the stare-down drew out between him and Konrad, Bennet was the first to look away. It was a subtle defeat, but resounding. He took a slow breath, recovering his usual composure before he turned to Kate.

"It's...a possibility," Bennet admitted, "but it doesn't sound like Claude's style. Zimmerman's murder was too flashy. Too melodramatic."

Bennet paused, shaking his head.

"Too..._visible_," he concluded.

Konrad frowned thoughtfully at Bennet's words.

"How _was_ Zimmerman killed, exactly?" he asked.

Kate found the curious interest in his eyes painfully familiar. Her mind stumbled over the image briefly, delaying her answer even after she had weighed the consequences and benefits and decided to share the details.

"He was stabbed through the heart," she supplied. "The forensics suggest the murder weapon was a thin, curved blade, less than two inches in width, but long enough to exit cleanly through the back. Possibly a sword. And the detail might be an unconnected, but he had an edelweiss flower pinned to the lapel of his coat."

Konrad frowned, his eyebrows drawing together in a troubled expression. After a moment, he turned toward Bennet.

"Is Adam still being held at Three Mile Island?" he asked. Which was a bizarre enough question to beg further questions, but Bennet clearly understood his meaning.

Kate still made a note to ask about the connection later.

"Adam briefly escaped, but he was also killed four years ago, in a separate incident from Bishop."

Stricken was the only word for Konrad's reaction to the news. Given what they knew of Adam and Konrad's history together and the ability they had shared, Kate could imagine the other man's death was a difficult thing to hear. Konrad was quiet for a long moment, and as they watched his undisguised shock progressed through sadness and regret, into a shaken acceptance.

"You're right," Konrad said eventually, voice subdued and quiet when he spoke, "I didn't like Zimmerman. Plotting his death wasn't exactly on my to-do list, but I guess it's possible something could have moved me to do it. But the flower feels like someone trying to send a message. Or part of some kind of setup. That doesn't sound like me, and if it was I have no idea who it could have been aimed at..."

His expression turned briefly intense as he seemed to turn the details over in his head, but he finally abandoned the effort, shaking his head with a sigh.

"Peter seems to have wrapped up all my memories of the past decade somewhere out of my reach," Konrad said, finally. "If I killed Zimmerman, my reasons for it are locked up in that part of my mind you don't want me to see."

Konrad stopped then, blinking suddenly as if he had just realized something.

"There it is," he said, softly, his voice almost a whisper as he turned his attention on Kate once more. "I knew there was something in this that was personal for you. When I thought you were Hana that made sense, but not for a detective investigating a murder. Not unless someone you cared about was involved. I _know_ it wasn't Zimmerman, and there's no reason to fence off my memories during an interrogation, not unless..."

Konrad trailed off

"It's Ryan, isn't it?" Konrad asked.

His mouth shaped a soft, somewhat baffled and sincerely sympathetic smile, but Kate still felt a little sick hearing the question. She couldn't respond right away. While Bennet was not so affected, he looked at her as if he seemed unsure how to proceed. They had agreed, after all, when preparing for their interview, that where Kevin was concerned, she would have final say. Pushing her unease to the back of her mind, Kate did her best to move forward.

"Tell me about that," she demanded, somewhat relieved when her voice didn't betray how truly unsettled she was. "About _Ryan_. I deal with aliases and covers on a daily basis, but I don't understand this."

Konrad looked down at his chained hands, his smile turning a little sideways, as if embarrassed.

"To be honest, I don't either," he admitted faintly. "I've lived a long time, detective, and I've had a lot of names. Kevin Ryan was just another name. Just someone I made up to get me through another few decades. If he's somehow managed to take on a life of his own...?"

Whatever her expression was, it seemed to be all the confirmation he needed. He slowly shook his head.

"I don't know how exactly I might have managed to do that," Konrad admitted, confusion plain on his face. "I couldn't tell you if it was one of my abilities or just legitimate mental illness. I probably couldn't do it again if I tried. But I—"

He paused, wetting his lips.

"I might be able to guess _why_," Konrad said, almost breathlessly. "Because the last thing I remember clearly are the roses."

Confusion crossed his face again, slightly nervous, uncertain.

"Nine years ago there was some kind of attack, wasn't there? In Manhattan?" Konrad asked her cautiously. "Two planes hit the World Trade Towers?"

Kate's eyebrows rose in a vague sort of surprise, and she gave a slight nod. Konrad mirrored it faintly, eyes moving to his hands.

"I remember the second tower falling," Konrad said, slowly, almost as if he were piecing it together for himself. "I remember joining the response efforts—me and my partner, Max. I remember...seeing the streets covered in rubble, and the buried cars and smoke, and dust, and..."

He trailed off with a thick swallow, taking a breath that shook audibly.

And Kate felt a little stunned, because she had heard this story before. Every cop who was on the force that day had their own version of that story, and she knew this one because Kevin had told her. About how he and his partner had been helping to pull the survivors out of the Marriott, and the breakdown he had suffered when he found the roses. Telling the story, Kevin had always described the reasons behind the reaction as a complete mystery to him, just something that he had never adequately been able to explain. Now, knowing the man's true history, from Konrad's lips it made a painful amount of sense...

"It brought back some very powerful, very _ugly_ memories," Konrad said, coming back to himself with a shake of his head. "Of Dresden. Seeing the city where I grew up destroyed, the block where my family's home once stood turned to rubble. Things I think I never really dealt with..."

"Things I didn't really want to deal with," he said distantly, with a weak, lifeless smile, "and right then I didn't have _time_. So I used one of the abilities I had to push it all to the back of my mind—just a piece here and there—until I could deal with it later.

"But then I found the roses," Konrad said softly, "orange-yellow ones, like my mother used to grow under the window where she could look at them while she read... And for a split second it was that same moment, and...and I felt like I'd lost them all over again."

He closed his eyes, shaking his head again with a faint breath.

"It all gets kind of choppy after that," Konrad said when he opened his eyes again. "And it's funny, too, because that's the last thing I _remember_, but it doesn't feel like yesterday. Like I've moved on past the shock of it...or I guess it was Kevin who did."

"But yeah," he concluded, almost apologetically as his eyes returned to Kate's, "I think if anything I've lived through was going to break me...it would've been that."

"You seem to be handling the idea pretty well," Kate managed, feeling a little disconnected. What else could she possibly say?

Konrad let out a faint snort, offering a rueful smile.

"Well it's strange, I'll admit," he said, "but then my scale of strange has its bar set pretty high. I've _died_, detective, and come back from the dead more times than I care to remember. I've been dissected alive, and seen my own heart beating outside my chest. I saw a man walk on the moon, and an actor elected president. I've seen _dozens_ of impossible things during my time with the Company—"

He cut off with a faint blink, as though something had occurred to him, frowning slightly.

"Once, I watched the same person born three times on the same day," Konrad said, leaning forward to look at Kate sharply. "I mean, if you want to know about Zimmerman and the Company, detective, _there's_ a story...

"Back in the early seventies, Thompson and I were sent to collect a woman. A cloner. We were given her whereabouts and information about her ability, but the information somehow missed the fact that she was pregnant."

A dark expression crossed Konrad's face before he added, "I still like to think that, if we had known, Thompson never would have used the taser."

"She went into labor in the back of the van on the way back to Odessa," Konrad said, eyes shifting to stare at some point off to her left that held nothing much in particular. "Only, part of the way through it her ability began to malfunction, and two unprepared agents with the uncomfortable task of delivering a baby on a stretch of empty road suddenly found themselves trying to deliver _seven_."

"Which almost sounds like it should have been laughably funny," Konrad continued, his eyes distant as he let out a pained laugh, "except that the mother died, each one of her, leaving the nightmare results of seven dead women and four dead infants and three _perfect_, blue-eyed baby girls more identical than any natural triplets you could ever hope to find."

"Zimmerman was fascinated with the possibilities," Konrad said, his expression turning nasty. "They became...an asset to his research."

"Years later, he would play up his role as a doting father," Konrad finished, "and I'm sure he _did_ love Barbara, in his way. But that doesn't change the fact that she was a lab rat before she ever was his daughter..."

Konrad trailed off into a restless silence. Though he was still, the lines of his body were charged with an intense, disgusted anger that was almost palpable. Kate and Bennet each were left stunned, and just as quiet. Several seconds ticked past before that silence was broken.

"If you don't have any more questions, detective," Konrad said, looking back to Kate with a strange, vulnerable smile, "I think I'd like my phone call."


	27. Chapter Fourteen: Broken

**Chapter Fourteen: Broken**

_Our doubts are traitors,_  
_And make us lose the good we oft might win,_  
_By fearing to attempt. _  
—_Measure for Measure; Act I, Scene IV_

* * *

As they left interrogation, Bennet instructed Ms. Strauss to continue her watch on the doorway, to stay on guard, and to let him know immediately if Konrad tried to move, or talk to her, or did anything else unusual.

"And I mean _anything_," Bennet emphasized carefully as he and Kate continued down the hallway.

He told his partner nothing about the story they had just heard, and Kate found herself somewhat bothered by that. Still, she had so many other things on her mind...

Her head was still swimming from everything the interview had uncovered. Much of it had been...unsettling, to say the least, and she wasn't sure any of it was useful. It still grated on her, in an abstract sort of way, that Konrad hadn't tried to defend himself from their accusations. No matter how earnestly expressed his lack of knowledge had been. Granted, at the very least his ignorance of the past nine years seemed to support his innocence in the immediate sense. If Konrad truly remembered nothing, then he and Kevin were entirely separate. If that were true, it meant Konrad had been buried beneath Kevin's personality all along, and that Kevin couldn't remember the murder because he hadn't been a part of it. Still, part of her wanted more than that. She wanted very badly to believe that Konrad was innocent—that _Kevin_ was innocent—not just of the crime of murder, but of the capacity to commit it.

At this point, it was lack of reassurance on that count which bothered her more than anything else.

"While that was both enlightening and disturbing," Bennet said, interrupting her thoughts, "the interrogation seems to have left us at a dead end."

Kate, unfortunately, had to agree.

"As far as the case is concerned, we're back at square one," she acknowledged. "We _need_ to find Barbara."

Bennet looked thoughtful for a moment.

"I have a contact in Chennai who might be able to locate her," Bennet said, though he seemed hesitant. "I'll see what I can arrange."

As strange as his suggestion was, operating under present circumstances, Kate didn't even question it.

"In the mean time, I think we should keep Konrad handy," Bennet continued, stating his opinion carefully. "Just until we know more. Killer or not, I refuse to believe his proximity to this investigation is a coincidence, and until we do find Barbara he is still our best source on Zimmerman."

"_Can_ we even keep him here?" Kate asked meaningfully.

Because Bennet had been handling Konrad like a threat of the highest order, almost from the beginning. Kate was beginning to believe that Bennet's caution—too reasoned, too calculated to properly be called paranoia—was simply part of his nature. Still, she couldn't help but be affected by his attentiveness. Before deciding whether it was a good idea hold Konrad in custody, it was important to know whether it was even possible.

"There are too many unknowns," Bennet said, unhappily. "Our understanding of Konrad's capabilities is still incomplete, and your holding cells just aren't equipped to contain some of the things I've seen."

Kate considered this, both Bennet's words and the man they concerned.

"So far Konrad seems...reasonable," Kate argued. "He knows he's in police custody, not that of the Company. He also knows we have Ryan to consider. Given his history with the NYPD, I think if we treat with him fairly—extend our good faith—then during the forty-eight hours we can _legally _hold him, he might be willing to cooperate."

Bennet seemed, if not quite surprised by the suggestion, as if it were not an approach that had at all occurred to him. Dubious at first, after some consideration he gave a slight nod.

"Alright, fair it is," he said, his tone almost approving.

He frowned slightly, then, his eyes moving to study her face for a moment.

"I'll leave it for you and your captain to decide," Bennet offered tentatively, "but I would suggest you process Reichardt under his own name rather than Ryan's. If this case resolves itself...favorably, you might be able to explain how your detective was being _utilized_ as a means of communication with an unorthodox witness."

And then it was Kate's turn to be surprised. Because she recognized instantly what Bennet was doing. He was suggesting a possible _out_ for Ryan. A remarkably clean one. If they booked Konrad under his own name, then in the horrible event they actually needed to charge him, technically it wouldn't be a lie. Not on paper. And if—hopefully _when_—he was cleared... Specials were capable of a lot of seemingly impossible things. No one was entirely sure what the limits of that might be. She supposed what Bennet was suggesting was that Kevin be recorded as having merely served as a conduit for their witness.

Which wouldn't exactly be a lie either.

"I'll discuss it with Montgomery," Kate said, uncertain. Shaken. _Grateful_. "Thank you."

Bennet gave only a short nod, continuing down the hallway, presumably to make arrangements with his contact in India.

The observation room was silent when Kate entered. Castle turned to look at her instantly from his lean against the back wall. Hiro Nakamura noticed her too, after a moment, breaking away from his astonished stare at the man in the other room. A nervous sort of guilt crept into his expression, as if he had just been caught in something. And Javier... Castle's glance had returned forward almost as soon as his eyes had met hers, and at first she thought he had been staring at Konrad as well, but it only took only a moment for her to see that hadn't been the case...

That the concern in writer's gaze was focused on _Javier_.

Javier could often be a difficult man to read. Recently, he seemed to have become even more so. Where once she might have classified him as being very controlled but still welcoming, Kate had noticed how, over the past few weeks, he had become alarmingly distant. Almost closed off. What Kate was seeing now went so far beyond that she wasn't even sure what to call it.

Javier stood very quietly in front of the window. His face was almost blank, his eyes locked with an unshakeable intensity to where Konrad sat chained to the table. He was so _still_, rigid in a way she had never seen from him before, and yet t even the slightest movement Konrad made in the other room seemed to draw from him a subtle flinch. At the same time, Javier hardly seemed to have noticed that she had entered the room, or her approach as she drew nearer. It was like he had completely shut down.

For the first time since this strange ordeal had begun he seemed truly helpless.

From the moment she had seen the photograph Kate had felt off balance. Trying to maneuver this case was like walking through sand, the ground beneath her shifting every time she thought she had her footing. Yet Javier had seemed to be handling things so well—or, at the very least, far better than any of them save Bennet—reacting with purpose while the rest of them were floundering. It was as if he had somehow managed to lock away all of his confusion and his doubts in order to focus on the single thing that was truly important all this...

And of course, that focus had been Kevin.

Javier had thrown himself into supporting his partner without hesitation, devoting every inch of his fierce energy into making sure Kevin wouldn't break. But now Kevin was no longer there for him to support, out of reach in a way that was incredibly bizarre and painfully abstract. Kevin hadn't _left_. He wasn't _dead_. He was simply gone_,_ vanished behind the familiar face of a complete stranger, and there was nothing Javier could do about it. And Kate thought that was the crux of what had finally broken him...

He was off the case. Kevin was gone. Everything had been taken completely out of his hands, and now Javier had no choice but let it all catch up to him.

Her heart ached for him. She knew he must have been grappling with very similar doubts to her own. But he and Kevin had always been very close, and she knew that pain had to have cut him so much deeper. Javier had never been the type of man who was very comfortable letting others past his defenses. Not that he was antisocial by any stretch of the word, it simply took a long time for him to trust. To let his guard down. Kate had always felt she understood that. She could be very much the same way, and it was part of the reason they had gotten along so well.

For a while after Kevin had first joined their team, Kate had worried he and Javier might be completely incompatible. Usually, people expecting to become fast friends found their hopes dashed upon the rocks of Javier's personality. But Kevin had proven more patient than most. More patient and more _determined_. It was part of that sometimes contradictory nature of his. It had always impressed her how someone who could be so unobtrusive at one moment, easily losing himself in a crowd, could seem so _loud_ the next—not in the sense of being obnoxious, so much as simply unavoidable. To say that he could light up a room would have been a dreadful cliché, but Kate couldn't deny the ease with which Kevin could change its atmosphere when he really tried. Kevin was warm and inviting in a way that was undemanding, and yet, at the same time, almost magnetic. And almost before either one of them knew it, he had found his way in...

Now, years later, Kate was watching Javier mourn the loss of his partner like the absence of a missing limb.

Kate looked back at Castle, and at his raised eyebrow gave a faint nod. The writer quickly pushed himself away from the wall, declaring very loudly that he was going off for coffee, and who would like some, and how very kind of Hiro to lend him a hand, dragging the young man away with a bewildered expression. Kate waited until the door had closed behind them before she spoke Javier's name.

He didn't notice at first, nor did he notice when she came up close beside him.

"Bennet thinks there's a way for us to get Kevin clear of this once it's all over," she said finally, "but for now we're going to keep...Reichardt available for further questioning."

And _that_ managed to capture Javier's attention. His eyes pulled away with some apparent difficulty, wavering as they searched hers cautiously. Almost as though he were trying to determine whether it was some kind of trick. Kate knew that Javier carried some unexplained and intense distrust of Bennet, and no doubt the offer had him wary, but what she saw in his eyes struck her as a sort of desperate struggle against a hope that he was afraid to trust.

When, after a few moments, he failed to respond, Kate tried again.

"How are you holding up?" she asked, almost casually, trying not to make it seem like he had been showing his hurt as much as he had.

And maybe it was the fact that he didn't even try to front it off that worried her most of all.

"I— I don't know." Casting another glance at Konrad over his shoulder, Javier dragged a hand over his mouth. "Just— _Jesus_, Kate. I don't know."

Javier's voice sounded so small and thin that Kate almost wouldn't have recognized it. Shaking his head, his eyes roamed over the room on the other side of the glass, seeming almost reluctant to settle back on the man who occupied it now that his daze had been broken.

"I promised him, Kate," Javier said, his voice a weary, broken thing. "I promised Kevin I wouldn't take my eyes off him, but..."

He shook his head again.

"I don't think I could stand to be in the same room as...as _that_ man," he said, taking a shaking breath. "I don't think I could do that without losing my mind."

In his face, in his eyes, in the weary list of his body, Kate could see the way the shame was weighing on him. She could see the horror living there and knew that, to Javier, his giving in to it was nothing short of betrayal. And she knew he must have felt very weak because of it, but Kate thought that admitting it might have been one of the bravest things she had ever seen.

"We should be moving him to lockup soon," she said. She briefly considered placing a hand on his shoulder, but with what he was feeling, she thought the attempt at comfort might only make it worse. "You're no longer on the case, but I could ask Montgomery to let you take over the desk down there. That way you could keep an eye on him from the monitors."

He blinked once in faint surprise, nodding in a way that seemed almost numb.

"Yeah," he said, finally, almost a whisper. "Yeah, okay."


	28. Chapter Fifteen: Reliquary

**Chapter Fifteen: Reliquary**

_"History does not belong to us, we belong to it."_  
—_Hans-Georg Gadamer_

* * *

Konrad smiled as he hung up the phone, feeling a great deal more relaxed than he would have anticipated when this strange experience first began. He had been joking when he made the demand, of course, but it seemed as if due process was going to be Detective Beckett's approach in trying to gain his trust. Or perhaps it was simply her way of retaining a sense of control over an alarming and bizarre situation. Either way, her fair-dealing was a welcome surprise, and Konrad was more than happy to accept it graciously.

Having one less concern made it so much easier to try and wrap his head around everything else.

Konrad had always tried to avoid letting longevity distort his perception of time, but nine years really wasn't all that long, if he thought about it. Long enough that cultural changes were bound to be noticeable, if he looked, but probably not long enough for them to be jarring. Still, trying to maneuver around that blank spot in his memory was distressing. For all he knew, anything could have happened.

After all, it was clear that at least one potentially earth-shattering change had taken place...

It was strange to imagine a world where people knew about the existence of specials. Which was obviously the case, from the picture that was slowly taking shape. It couldn't have been for very long though, he thought, because it was clear from the way Konrad was being handled that the police station was nowhere near being properly equipped or prepared. Konrad supposed it was possible that was where Noah entered the picture—the way he had partnered with Detective Beckett clearly indicated he had some form of official authority. Though it was difficult for Konrad to picture a man like Bennet working for the government in any legal capacity. For all his humble beginnings, the man had taken to the shadows as if he had been born to them—

Though if _anyone_ had the talent to keep his skeletons buried deep enough to pass muster, it would be Noah.

Stepping away from the phone, Konrad held out his shackled wrists for inspection. Apparently, Ms. Strauss had been given instructions to do so any time they were out of her direct line of sight—and every two minutes, even if they weren't. Once they returned him to his cell, that would relax, but as long as Konrad had access to the hallways, Bennet wasn't taking any chances. The tight security was more than a little flattering, but then Ivan had always loved to brag about his favorite student's knack for contingencies. Once satisfied, Tracy nodded to the uniformed officers that were serving as his escort.

None of them relaxed.

Throughout the brief excursion, the four men had all eyed him like a bomb that was about to go off. Konrad wasn't sure if Noah was responsible for that or not. He wasn't sure what they had been told—or if they had been told anything at all—though he had the distinct impression they at least knew what he was. Of course, there was also the question of whether they knew _who _he was...

Whether any of them had been acquainted with Kevin Ryan.

Konrad could imagine how strange that might be for them—after all, it was certainly strange enough for him. Looking over their faces, Konrad didn't feel any sense of recognition, not the way he had with Noah; or Tracy, who so closely resembled the girl he had watched grow up around the facility in Odessa—or even Detective Beckett for that matter. But Konrad had no way of knowing if that was significant or not. He didn't know these men, but one of them might have been his best friend for all he knew the difference.

His. Ryan's. He wasn't quite sure how to define the relationship there. It was all very confusing.

It was a different precinct than the one he last remembered working at, Konrad noted as he passed through the hallway. Though it seemed familiar enough that he might have been there at least once before. He couldn't be certain. Suddenly, it crossed his mind to wonder what had become of his partner, Susanne Maxwell. He also wondered how Detective Beckett might react if he asked. And Konrad was weighing the potential benefits of asking versus the potential fallout when he saw something that drove the question from his mind entirely.

Another familiar face, though one he had almost failed to recognize.

Konrad might not have noticed if not for the way the young Asian man was watching him so intently. If the others around him hadn't all been police officers, the man certainly wouldn't have stood out from the crowd. But it was his curious, bespectacled gaze and shy demeanor that immediately sparked a stunned recognition, and brought Konrad's steps to a halt.

Which probably wasn't the best thing to do when surrounded by four very armed, very jumpy policemen, but for the moment Konrad had all but forgotten them.

"Hiro-_kun_?"

The young man's eyes widened, and Konrad _knew_ he wasn't wrong. A few of the officers had drawn their guns. Konrad felt a flash of cold from his left as Tracy tensed briefly as well, but her eyes followed his and after a moment she relaxed.

"It's alright," she said, reassuring the officers before turning to look at Konrad. "I can't let you stand around out here, but he can walk with us if you like?"

Konrad nodded faintly, grateful, though he was still taking in the sight of the boy—the _man_—in front of him.

While Konrad's curse and Angela's intervention had meant that most of the Company had forgotten him, the Company's founders most definitely hadn't. Yet while Bishop and Linderman might have been content to ignore him—out of sight, out of mind—the same could not have been said of Arthur Petrelli. Arthur had no love at all for anything he couldn't control, and having a deserter running around would have been a challenge to his authority. And the fact that Konrad had been a close friend to Arthur's wife would have only made it that much greater an affront to his power.

Hiro had still been a teenager during Konrad's last visit, before he defected. Konrad had considered the risks several times, but as much as he would have liked to see Kaito or Angela again, it would have been far too dangerous for him to make contact. Only now, seeing Hiro stirred up a sharp pang of regret, and Konrad found himself wishing he had taken that chance.

Tracy crooked her finger at Hiro. He gave a rapid blink of abashed surprise, approaching with an excited grin that seemed a bit dazed. He came to a halt just in front of Konrad, dipping a short bow.

"Konrad-_ojisan_."

Konrad was taken slightly aback, momentarily hopeful.

"_Watashi no koto o oboete imasu ka?_"

But Konrad saw Hiro's face begin to fall before the question had even finished. He managed to catch his sigh of disappointment before it could escape. While Hiro clearly knew who Konrad was, the young man did not remember him. It had been foolish for Konrad to let himself think otherwise.

"_Gomennasai_."

Konrad shook his head in response to Hiro's regretful apology, not yet trusting himself verbally.

"I'd appreciate it if you would stick to English," Tracy interrupted gently. "If I don't keep track of your conversation, Bennet's not likely to be happy about it."

The pleading lilt of humor in her tone let him know that was _not_ something she wanted to deal with. Konrad nodded with a sigh.

"I am sorry that I do not remember you," Hiro apologized again as they resumed their walk, "but my father would speak of you often."

"How is your father? And Kimiko?" Konrad asked, eager for the information, though he knew the intervening years were too much to hope to catch up on during their short walk.

A look of sadness crossed Hiro's face that made Konrad's chest tighten.

"Kimiko...is good," Hiro answered carefully of his sister. "She and Ando are very happy together. He propose to her months ago."

Though Konrad felt Hiro trying to dance around his question he couldn't help but smile, remembering the friend from whom Hiro had always been inseparable. But that feeling of regret was returning, and Konrad knew what Hiro was going to say before he even spoke.

"My father..." Hiro ducked his head, "I am sorry to say he is dead. He was killed four years ago."

Four years ago. It seemed to be a recurring theme. Bishop and his daughter, _Adam_, Kaito... Clearly the Company and those connected to it had seen a great deal of upheaval four years ago. And though Konrad didn't have the details, he couldn't help but wonder if things might have been different if he had been there. It was in his head to ask how it had happened, but he didn't think he could stand to hear it, not from Hiro. There would be time for that later.

He hoped.

"When he was younger, Kaito always had this energy about him," Konrad surprised himself by saying. "A kind of...pure light. It dirtied a little during the years he was involved with the Company, and he lost what remained of it when your mother died. He never lost his sense of honor, but that light couldn't survive her."

Hiro stared back at him, seeming very surprised himself. Konrad nodded with a faint smile, remembering.

And Konrad was honest enough with himself to admit he had been a little bit in love with Hiro's father—he and Angela had _both_ it bad. His smile turned a little crooked as he imagined Hiro's startled reaction, should he choose say so out loud. Truthfully, Konrad had never really stopped, but Ishi had made Kaito so happy. It had been impossible to resent her for that.

"I'd never seen a love like theirs before," Konrad added distantly. "The kind of love that comes only once in a lifetime—if at all—even in one as long as mine. The kind that you just _know_ it when you've found it."

And Konrad had known his share of love and loss during his long life, but he knew that was something he had never had. Not yet, and a part of him lived in fear that he ever would. Losing such an important piece of yourself wasn't something you could ever recover from, not entirely. He remembered how devastated Kaito had been when he had lost his wife, how much smaller, how _diminished_ because of it. Never weak, that just wasn't a word one could apply to Kaito, but absent the subtle strength—the faith and _purpose—_he had once had. And while Ishi's loss might not quite have broken him, afterward Kaito had seemed almost hollow. It had been hard watching his friend live with such a deep, bitter wound, but Konrad had to imagine that, however Kaito had met his end, he would have gone to meet it content with the knowledge that he would see his wife again.

It was a peace Konrad might never know.

**(—**  
**=)**

"I might not have your extensive criminal record, Angela, but don't even pretend this is the first time I've called you from jail."

In spite of the circumstances, Angela couldn't help but smile.

"No, I suppose it's not," she admitted, amused. "Still, _murder_ is a new one, Kunz, if I'm not mistaken."

"Well you've already got the market cornered on sock theft," Konrad said, returning an easy grin. "An amateur like me could never dream of competing with you there."

A buzzer sounded and the bars slid open, allowing Angela access to the cell. Looking him over, she thought Konrad appeared well—even weighted down by the shackles securing his wrists and ankles. Angela resolved to have a talk with Noah about that later. For now, as disturbing as it was to see the imagery of her dream realized so literally, it was enough that he was there, that he was _safe_.

The rest could always be arranged at another time.

"It's good to see you again, Angie," Konrad said fondly as she joined him on the bench where he sat.

"It is," she agreed, eyes searching his face carefully, "though a few elements of this reunion have been somewhat...unexpected."

Konrad's eyes widened slightly as he caught her meaning, and he lifted a hand to his cheek, a faint smile lifting at the corner of his mouth.

"I was a little surprised myself," he said quietly, clearly astonished at the thought. "I think I must have been suppressing my abilities unconsciously... I didn't even know that was possible. I've been trying to figure out how I did it. If I can do it again, I might finally be free of the Ghost's ability."

He seemed very excited about it. Angela couldn't blame him. If he _could_ manage to find a way to neutralize the ability that made it so difficult for others to remember him, Konrad stood to regain so much of what he had lost.

"As for the aging thing..." Konrad said, voice a little soft as his smile widened, "I think I kind of like it."

"It suits you," Angela said to him, returning his smile warmly.

And it felt like a very long time had passed since she had smiled at anyone and truly meant it.

"So," Angela said, shifting the track of their conversation, "I'm assuming you're innocent of the crime you are being investigated for— Or _should_ I assume?"

Konrad gave a faint snort.

"Well, _I'm_ assuming I'm innocent," he answered, shaking his head, "but then I can't really know for sure, can I? Nine years... It doesn't seem like a lot until it's not there anymore."

He fell silent, and she could see him trying to make sense of everything that had been sprung on him so suddenly.

"The public knows that we exist. Noah's working for the government or something. Bishop and his daughter are dead. And Kaito. And _Adam_—" Konrad broke off, seeming almost overwhelmed. "What happened to the Company, Angela?"

And Angela felt his hurt deeply. Because for all his opinions of the organization had soured over the years, he had joined it to serve a good he had truly believed in. They had all believed in the Company, but watching the decline of its ideals had harmed Konrad more than most. After all, it hadn't been the first time he had allowed his principles to be lead astray.

"There is no Company anymore," Angela told him finally, "only its relics, like you and me."

"It was bad after you left, Konrad," she said. "Charles was already out by then, of course. With both of you, gone Kaito was all that was left of our conscience, and it wasn't long after that he too pulled out of the Company entirely. Daniel and Arthur stepped in to take the reins and began pursuing more...ambitious plans."

Her mind slid treacherously over what a powerful understatement that was.

"Arthur...tried to murder our son when Nathan threatened to interfere with those plans," she told him, voice turning sharp and chill at the memory. "He didn't succeed. After Arthur went to ground, and after Daniel's death, Bishop assumed control...and you know he never did have a head for what we were doing. He mishandled it, badly, and Adam and Maury took the opportunity to attack the Company while it was weakened.

"Charles and Daniel were already gone by then, Arthur still in hiding, but Adam managed to kill nearly all the rest of the original twelve who were still active. I only escaped by being held as a suspect in Kaito's murder.

"After Bishop's death, Arthur and Maury finished the job Adam had started. Though I've been informed both of them payed with their lives for the mistake of trusting my husband. And Arthur himself was finally killed by...a particularly _vicious_ special. The same man who was responsible for the deaths of Bishop and his daughter, and who burned the facility in Odessa to the ground.

"The same _monster_ who killed my poor Nathan," she concluded, painfully.

"Oh, Angie..." Konrad's voice, though soft, broke through her grief as he took her hand in his. "I wish I could have been there for you."

"It's a burden we share," Angela said after a slow breath, recovering herself sharply, "for the crime of outliving so many of those we cared about. But we _share_ it, and the burden is lighter because of it."

Konrad nodded, offering her a sad smile.

"You always were the smart one," he said softly.

She returned his smile again, though it was thin, and for a few moments they sat together in silence.

"Charles," Konrad said after a while. "You said he'd passed before the others were killed. How did he die?"

"Kidney failure," Angela told him. "Four years ago, but before any of the ugliness had started."

"Was it..." Angela watched Konrad's forehead crease as he constructed his question carefully. "Was it easy? I mean—"

Konrad always had been difficult to talk to when it came to the subjects of disease, pain and death. As if he felt he had no right speaking about such conditions when was not subject to them. Angela squeezed his hand lightly.

"It's never easy," she said with an understanding smile, "but he was at peace. Peter was with him in his last months, as his nurse, and though I despaired of my son's choices at the time I can think of no one better suited for it. It was a mercy, I think, that Charles got to leave us before everything began to fall apart. "

And Konrad didn't speak at first, though he gave her a grateful nod, digesting it. When he spoke it was with a hesitant hint of a smile.

"That's good to know," he said, quietly, "Peter was always a great kid, and Charles... He was the best of us. A peaceful end...he deserved that more than any of us."

"He did," Angela acknowledged, carefully and sharply enough that it drew Konrad's eyes quickly back to her own, "but I know he's not really who you want to ask me about."

Konrad looked away suddenly, almost as if ashamed.

"It's not just because of what it might mean for _me_, Angie," he said quickly, anger rising in his voice, though she knew it was not toward her. "He was my friend, Angela. What he did—what Adam _tried_ to do—was horrifying. But he still was my friend, once, and no matter how much I want to, I could never forget that. And I never expected—"

Konrad cut himself off, wetting his lips. After a pause, he let out a slow breath.

"Adam was the one person I thought I'd never have to lose," he said, voice gaining a brittle, sorrowful edge. "Even after he was imprisoned, he was still _there_."

"How _did_ it happen?" Konrad asked finally.

"Arthur," Angela told him. "He was recovering from...the consequences of his attempt on Nathan's life."

Angela didn't think Konrad noticed her pause. She also didn't think that, at this moment, his knowing of her own attempt to murder her husband in retaliation would do either of them any good.

"Arthur used his own ability to steal Adam's in order to heal himself. From the way it was eventually told to me, without it time caught up with him very rapidly. It was almost instantaneous."

Konrad looked at her, plainly horrified. She regretted putting that image in his head, but he had wanted to know, and there was no more kind way of putting it. His gaze drifted as he sat in silence, and after a moment he shook his head.

"That doesn't make any sense," Konrad said, voice faint with disbelief. "I mean, all of my abilities were neutralized while I was—whatever you want to call it. But I only seem to have aged normally."

"Arthur's ability works by a very different mechanism than the one that you seem to have used on yourself," Angela said. "After all, like your memories, the abilities were still there, merely dormant."

Konrad thought about that, seeming to accept the idea hesitantly.

"Maybe," he said, nodding faintly.

"When this is all over, I'll have to introduce you to my granddaughter," Angela said, hoping to avoid another protracted, heavy silence. And it wasn't as if she were quite changing the subject. "I think it would be good for both of you to get to know each other. Claire would benefit from having a friend she might not lose one day."

Konrad looked at her in surprise, a faint but genuine smile on his lips.

"I'll look forward to it," he said, though his smile turned a little wry as his eyes dropped down to the chains on his wrists. "If I ever have the luxury of getting to meet her."

"Noah would arrange for your escape if I asked him to," Angela said quietly. "He's building a new agency to step into the role the Company left vacant, and he'll need you. I've dreamed it."

Konrad frowned, but she continued before he could level an argument.

"I know you've never trusted him," she said, keeping her eyes sharply focused on his, "He's not one of us. But, ironically, Noah Bennet is the only meaningful legacy the Company left behind. He is all that's left of everything we built, and right now he's the only one guiding our future. He _needs_ your experience and support, Konrad. If you promise to aid him, I'm sure he can find a way to get you out of here."

Konrad stared back at her mutely for a very long while before his eyes slid away into a more contemplative silence. He seemed...oddly conflicted. Whether it was simply reluctance to return to the game he had already once left, or something else entirely she couldn't quite tell. After a moment, he shook his head.

"That's kind of you to offer, Angie," Konrad said, offering her a sure smile, "but, no offense, I'd rather take my chances with Beckett than Bennet."

"The case connecting me to Zimmerman is pretty tough," he admitted, "but I really don't think I killed him. Once they realize that, well... We'll see where it goes from there."

"As for the rest," Konrad allowed, ruefully, "If you've dreamed it, it's not like I can really dodge it, anyway."

Angela sighed, favoring him with an indulgent smile.

"You never could resist a gamble," she said.

"_Qui ne risque rien n'arien_," Konrad said blithely, offering her a grin.

"Very well," she said, rising to her feet.

Konrad stood with her, taking her hands in his once more in farewell, and she leaned in to kiss his cheek. He noticed, of course, when the small object slipped from her hands into his own. Turning over his hand he looked down at the key resting in his palm. The numbers "806" were stamped into the back of it. She smiled when she saw the recognition in his eyes.

"In case you change your mind," she said very quietly.

It was difficult for her to leave him like this, but at the moment she had little other choice. Still, she reassured herself once more as she exited the holding area, the rest could always be arranged later. It was bitter reassurance, though, for even with Konrad there was no real guarantee that later would come.

But her troubled thoughts were quickly interrupted.

Distracted by the thought of seeing Konrad once again, Angela had managed to overlook him on her way in. Now, as she passed through the outer doors, the sight of him stopped Angela cold. Sitting at the desk beside the door which gave access to the cells was the dark-skinned man that had been haunting her recent dreams. He looked up at her as she entered, and his expression was every bit as troubled, guarded and unhappy as she remembered it—in fact, the look he leveled at her was almost a glare.

Angela recovered quickly from her surprise, taking a moment to assess him with a civil smile. The attention only seemed to discomfit him further. She would speak with Noah about it later, she decided, dipping the man a brief nod as she continued past. Knowing now the circumstances of Konrad's imprisonment—the one from which he had _already_ been freed—Angela thought she understood who this man was.

_What_ he was, though, and what it would mean for their futures still remained to be seen.

* * *

**Translations:**

"Konrad-_ojisan_." - "Uncle Konrad."

"_Watashi no koto o oboete imasu ka?_" - "Do you remember me?"

"_Gomennasai._" - An apology.

"_Qui ne risque rien n'arien._" - "Who risks nothing has nothing."


	29. Interlude 14—July 1969

_**Konrad & Angela—Toulouse, France; July 1969**_

Angela frowned slightly, squinting as she tried to make sense of the notes spread out upon her lap.

Konrad's handwriting could be almost impossible to read until one got used to it—and even then, occasionally presented a significant challenge. Of course, whenever he was called out on its illegibility, the immortal preferred to call it "eccentric". Daniel had joked more than once that Konrad's ability to absorb the abilities of other specials might extend to other traits as well, as if that could be responsible for the numerous bizarre quirks in his penmanship as well. Still, however one chose to describe it, the ironic fact remained that, for a man whose talents included the ability to speak nearly any language flawlessly, Konrad's facility with handwritten communication was almost _zero_.

Angela resolved to be the one to speak with Adam the next time they updated the information on their mission—even if she had to beat Konrad away from the phone with a stick.

Still focused on the difficult task of deciphering Konrad's notes, Angela almost didn't notice the car attendant approach with his cart.

"_Messieurs dames. Voulez-vous quelque chose?_"

In his seat across from her Konrad turned away from his quiet scan of the world flashing past the train window, offering the man a friendly smile.

"_Je prendrai La Dépêche et une boîte de tabac, s'il vous plait,_" Konrad said, nodding as he fished out his wallet and his pipe case.

"_Voilà, Monsieur._"

Money was exchanged, and the man handed Konrad a copy of _La Dépêche_ and a tin of pipe tobacco.

"_Merci bien_," Konrad thanked the man, smiling gratefully.

"_Madame_?" the man asked, turning his attention to her.

"_Rien, merci_," Angela said, declining politely. "_Je partage le papier_."

The man favored her with a confused stare and Konrad, who had been loading his pipe, smiled.

"_Elle veux dire 'le journal'_," Konrad clarified helpfully. "_Nouse le liront __à deux._"

Angela did her best to look abashed, throwing the man an apologetic smile. She _understood_ French almost perfectly, but she could hardly speak it to save her life. Her vocabulary was a little limited, but that was hardly her largest obstacle. Apparently her _accent_ was so poor that even Konrad often had difficulty understanding what she was saying.

"_Je vois_," the attendant said, smiling politely as he returned to his cart. "_Bonne journée."_

"_Merci beaucoup, Monsieur_," Angela returned, enunciating carefully.

She sat back in her seat, returning to the notes with a sigh. When a few frustrated moments of study failed to clarify anything more Angela finally gave up, folding them back into the envelope and setting them aside.

"If _'le journal'_ is a newspaper," she asked Konrad idly, "what would I use for 'diary'?"

Konrad didn't respond. Looking over, Angela saw him studying the news paper unfolded in front of him with a troubled frown, the pipe in his mouth still unlit. Angela smiled.

"I don't care what Charles tells you," she said teasingly, "it doesn't make you look any older."

When Konrad failed to respond to the jibe, or give any sign that he had heard her, Angela began to get worried.

"Konrad?" When he failed to respond to his name, she raised her voice a little louder. "Konrad, are you okay?"

Finally he seemed to snap out of it, answering her with a questioning hum around the stem of his pipe.

"You just got quiet," she told him.

It was something she had experienced a few times since the immortal had joined the Company. Konrad was generally a rather friendly, energetic person, but every now and then he was struck by moments where his whole personality seemed to dim. And Angela had heard the phrase "lost in thought" used numerous times in her life, but it wasn't until she met Konrad that it ever really meant anything. Because he really did look frighteningly _lost_ at times as he wandered whatever roads he had gone down in his head. Those moments never lasted long, however, and Angela wasn't sure why they always left her so unsettled.

Yet the fact remained that they always did.

"Sorry," Konrad said softly, "just...distracted."

But while his apology certainly felt sincere, Konrad still seemed rather subdued. He set the paper on his lap, smoothing out the folds with unnecessary attention. Though his eyes scanned the paper again, she didn't think he was really reading it. Not now. Leaning over, just close enough read the headline, Angela saw that it was about the recent moon landing. She couldn't connect it with his reaction, not right away, and she had just opened her mouth to ask him when he spoke.

"It catches me off guard sometimes," Konrad said, his voice soft and a little distant, "all the things Adam has seen during his long life. He fought in the Revolutionary War. Did you know that? He was already old, then, and America was just being born... He watched empires rise and fall in Europe, he watched the world become electrified. He remembers the invention of _flight_—"

"Perhaps," Angela interrupted. His voice had picked up energy as he went and, while his earlier quiet distress had been worrying, there had been a frantic note underneath it that she hadn't liked any better. "Though for all we know, there might have been a man with our sort of capabilities who flew long before then."

Angela phrased it lightly, as a joke. She saw him recognize that much, and his slight smile put her somewhat at ease. Though, after a moment, the expression turned a little wry. A little sad.

"I suppose," Konrad said, setting the paper on the seat beside him. "I mean, people like us can do some amazing things. But we shouldn't let ourselves forget how much we're are capable of without them."

"Would you ever give it up?" Angela asked curiously, detecting something behind his words that she couldn't quite get a grip on, and determined to try and feel it out. "I mean, do you really think you could survive being reduced to a boring monoglot like the rest of us?"

Konrad smiled a little at her words, turning his head to hide it with a little embarrassment.

"You know, your French really is improving beautifully," he said.

"Don't change the subject," Angela said. "Konrad, your understanding of the way people communicate—the world is open to you in a way most of us probably couldn't even imagine. Would you really give that up?"

Konrad delayed his answer, frowning as he stowed his pipe back in its case, and the case back in his pocket.

"Given the choice, I wouldn't give up my facility with language," he admitted finally.

"But," Konrad continued hesitantly, "if it came down to it...I think might make that sacrifice if I could be free of my immortality."

Angela stared at him for a shocked moment.

"I don't understand, why—"

The smile he returned to her was kind, but so sad that it cut off her words abruptly. He didn't speak right away. His eyes slid from hers for a moment, looking out the window— No, at his reflection in the window's glass.

"We're posing as brother and sister on this mission," Konrad said, looking back at her, "and already people assume I'm the younger sibling. But I'm old enough to be your father, Angela. Eventually, if you and I keep going on assignments like this, I would have to pose as your nephew or your son...maybe even your grandson one day."

Angela understood his meaning, though her nose crinkled slightly.

"I don't anticipate being involved with field work when I'm old enough to be a grandmother," she argued lightly, relieved when the words earned a smile.

The smile dimmed a little as Konrad sat back with a sigh, sparing another glance at the newspaper on the seat beside him.

"I just worry..." Konrad said after another short silence. "Adam...he's become so callous. It's easy for him to set aside the things he's lost—he's grown _used_ to losing them. But...at the same time he holds onto other parts of his past in...very _ugly_ ways."

"This is about the argument you two had before we left for the mission," Angela concluded.

Konrad seemed to consider a moment before he gave a reluctant nod.

"He wanted Kaito with me on this mission," Konrad told her. "He was angry when I insisted your grasp of the language made you a better choice."

Angela thought about that for a moment. She thought about that, and about a few other strange moments she had witnessed between the older immortal and Kaito Nakamura. Putting them together, she realized there was something more going on than she had seen. Though the subject clearly made Konrad uncomfortable, she decided to ask.

"He has some kind of special interest in Kaito, doesn't he?"

Konrad's forehead wrote itself into one of those complicated expressions of his. She thought she saw a lot of worry in it. Finally, he let out a slow breath, seeming to commit to his answer.

"Back in the 17th century," Konrad said, "before Adam learned of his ability, he met a man named _Hiro_ Nakamura. A man who claimed to be a time traveler. They were friends, at first, but apparently Hiro betrayed his trust, and Adam wants me to get close to Kaito so that I can find out what the connection is. He refuses to believe it's a coincidence, and I don't blame him. He wants to know whether Hiro was Kaito's ancestor or his descendent, and..."

Konrad trailed off into silence for a moment.

"And I don't know what I'm going to tell him if it's the latter," Konrad finally added. "I don't like to think about what Adam might do if I did."

Konrad shook his head, as if trying to dismiss the thought, but it seemed to cling stubbornly.

"I can't even imagine what it would be like," he said, voice filled with both wonder and horror, "holding a grudge for almost three hundred years."

Speechless, Angela could only agree. The thought was...disturbing, to say the least.

For a while they rode in silence, the repetitive noises of the train filling the emptiness between them. But in the time she had known him, in spite of those strange, still moments of his, Konrad had never been one to suffer silence for very long.

"So how does Arthur feel about taking care of your little boy while you're off 'visiting family'," he asked teasingly.

Angela let out an amused snort.

"We do have an _au paire_," she said. "Arthur's busy trying to get his practice established."

"And the other thing?" Konrad asked carefully, after a moment.

His short-lived humor had evaporated, and she thought he regretted bringing the subject up at all. Her eyes left his and she stared out the window for a moment as she considered her answer. But there was nothing she could tell him but the truth, however little either of them would like it.

"My dreams have suggested Arthur has the potential to become the most powerful of us," she said distantly, eyes still on the passing scenery. "He may even be like you."

She looked back to see his frown, full of concern. She sighed.

"My place at Arthur's side _is_ necessary to guide that for our future," Angela insisted, "but we've agreed it's best if Danny handles the revelation—about the Company, about specials. Arthur's...not ready to know about my part in it. Not yet."

"Doesn't that ever bother you?" Konrad asked.

Angela knew Konrad hated it, that her marriage to Arthur had been built from false pretenses and not real love. It almost seemed to hurt him more than it hurt her, which was...really kind of sweet of him, in a way. But while Konrad had disagreed with Angela's methods, he was resigned to her commitment, at least. Once Nathan was born, it had been impossible for any of them to doubt it.

"And I _do _care about Arthur," she told him, soothingly.

That much was certainly true—as she had grown closer to the man, it had been impossible not to. The words didn't seem to ease Konrad's concerns very much, however. His silence drew out uncomfortably.

"Relationships built on lies don't last," Konrad said, finally, looking away.

And there was such an ache in his voice and a pain in his eyes that Angela knew he was speaking from experience.

"Sometimes the lies are a necessary evil," Angela said, sure of herself.

Though he was visibly unhappy, Konrad didn't—and very probably couldn't—disagree.

* * *

**Translations:**

"_Messieurs dames. Voulez-vous quelque chose?_" - "Ladies, gents. Do you want something?"

"_Je prendrai La Dépêche et une __boîte __de tabac, s'il vous plait._" - "I'll take _La Dépêche_ and a tin of tobacco, please."

"_Voilà, Monsieur._" - "Here, sir."

"_Merci bien._" - "Thanks a bunch."

"_Rien, merci. Je partage le papier._" - "No, thank you. I share [sic] the paper [in the sense of the material]."

"_Elle veux dire 'le journal'._ _Nous le liront à deux._" - "She means 'the newspaper'. We'll read it together."

"_Je vois._ _Bonne journée._" - "I see, have a good day."

"_Merci beaucoup, Monsieur._" - "Thank you very much, sir."

(Credit and thanks for all French dialog goes to adja999 on LiveJournal.)


	30. Chapter Sixteen: Curiosity&Satisfaction

**Chapter Sixteen: Curiosity Killed the Cat (Satisfaction Brought it Back)**

_"Everything makes sense a bit at a time. But when you try to think of it all at once, it comes out wrong."_  
—_Terry Prachett, __Only You Can Save Mankind_

* * *

"So...wait," Castle said, confused and fascinated and _desperately_ trying to keep up. "You're saying the Company used to use Three Mile Island as a prison for dangerous specials?"

"Not...quite," Bennet said carefully, taking a moment to consider his wording, "But the Company did have facilities there under its control. It wasn't until Adam's attempt at global genocide that they were converted into a prison. Adam's accomplice, Maury Parkman, was a telepath just like his son. He managed to elude capture when Adam was caught, and at the time the other Founders felt that the best way to hide Adam's whereabouts was to have as few people know where he was as possible."

Which Castle supposed made plenty of sense, in its way. In that way that _any_ of this did.

It still boggled his mind how sharply the case had turned, shifting into something impossibly more bizarre and complex than even the craziest of his own playfully offered conspiracy theories could ever possibly hope to be. In spite of the very high—and shockingly personal—stakes now riding on the case, Castle itched for a pen. His curiosity, his excitement, his intrigue and delight in the strange, were not new, yet these familiar and constant parts of his personality suddenly left him feeling almost ashamed. Whatever and whoever Kevin Ryan really was, Castled considered him a friend, and feeling those things in the midst of what was happening to him felt wrong. Disrespectful.

He wasn't quite sure how to handle the situation. Right now, though, it was a distraction from the task at hand, and so, with _considerable_ difficulty, Castle tried to put the problem aside.

Bennet had managed to get a hold of his contact around 4 am—which, the world clock on Castle's phone had helpfully supplied, would have been early afternoon in Chennai. After some information juggling, apparently they had managed to locate Barbara's whereabouts by some means Castle could only assume were in some way supernatural—which wasn't exactly an out of bounds assumption, not any more. Bennet had been receiving texts updating them on Barbara's movements for the past half hour.

It was now 5:13 am, and Castle, Kate and Bennet sat parked across the street from an unexceptional coffee shop on the Lower East Side, patiently awaiting first contact.

Kate spotted Barbara's arrival in the rear view mirror. She stepped out of the car, positioning herself ahead of their target, covering her presence by browsing the newspapers in a nearby stand. Bennet waited for Barbara to pass the car before he exited as well. Castle had been instructed to stay in the car, but of course Kate had known exactly how likely he was to follow that directive the moment she had given it.

And Bennet was a _very_ observant man. He didn't even turn around at the sound of the car door closing as Castle followed.

"Barbara Zimmerman?"

Barbara halted when Kate spoke her name, turning on her heel very quickly. She saw Bennet almost immediately, though, and Castle saw the exact moment she realized she was trapped. Castle also thought he saw recognition in her eyes—though, of course, everyone recognized Bennet these days.

"Ms. Zimmerman," Bennet greeted civilly. "You may not remember me. My name is Noah Bennet—"

"I know who you are," Barbara interrupted.

Her reply was several steps away from civil.

"Then you can probably guess why I'm here," Noah responded evenly. He nodded toward Kate. "This is Detective Kate Beckett with NYPD Homicide. I'm aiding her investigation of your father's murder, and we would both appreciate it very much if you would cooperate."

Barbara didn't seem convinced. She glanced over her shoulder at Kate, her expression still wary. Her eyes searched the crowd around them, and Castle was sure she was looking for some route of escape. After a moment she seemed to decide this was futile and she nodded and turned to look at Kate, her eyes wide and terrified.

"Look, I'd love to help you any way I could, but you can't—" she cut off, wetting her lips before she said, "It might not be safe."

An odd, conflicted sympathy crossed Kate's expression.

"If it's Reichardt that you're worried about, we have him in custody," Kate said, her voice soft, but sure and even in a way Castle seriously envied.

Barbara appeared somewhat skeptical at first, but she looked back at Noah and after a moment her head dipped a shaky nod. She let out a slow breath, eyes closing for a moment as some of the tension bled out of her posture.

"Thank— Thank God," she said, "I— You have no idea. When he showed up at my apartment yesterday, I thought— I thought I was going to be next."

Kate frowned. For a moment, Castle thought it simply reflected her unease with the situation—with the _horror_ Barbara had felt being confronted with Konrad's presence. _Kevin's_. If that had been the case, Castle could have hardly blamed her for it, because uneasy was the least of what he felt about it. But after a few seconds, he realized the expression was different than he thought, and that wasn't her reason at all.

"Barbara," Kate asked, a slight puzzled expression still written on her face, "did you know that your father had been murdered when Konrad showed up at your door?"

Barbara didn't answer right away, and when she did it was with a silent, shallow nod. Kate's puzzlement solidified into something more focused, seizing on the detail.

"_How_ did you know that?" Kate asked.

"I got a phone call," Barbara said, "right before Konrad knocked on my door. A man who said he'd worked with my father at the Company— They...they did something to our memories when my father was kicked out, so I don't remember a lot, but his name sounded familiar. And he knew enough that I believed him. He warned me that I was in danger."

She paused, slowly shaking her head.

"We were supposed to meet so that we could talk about what to do, but when Konrad showed up flashing a badge, I thought— I thought he could have been using the police to look for me, and I was too afraid to show up for the meeting."

"Barbara, can you get in touch with this man?" Kate asked. "If he has information on your father's murder, we _need_ to speak with him."

"I don't know how to contact him, he just called me..." Barbara said regretfully.

After a moment she turned back toward Bennet.

"He said his name was Adam Monroe."

Things pretty much exploded after that, and with a momentum Castle could barely keep track of. They headed back to the station with Barbara in tow, Bennet shouting commands into his phone like it was going out of style. Castle felt sorry for the ear on the other end—especially when the voice that answered Bennet from the speaker phone didn't even sound old enough to shave.

"_I was listening in through your phone, so I'm already a few steps ahead of you, Fearless Leader,_" the voice said.

Light, but not mocking, and still clearly focused, it wasn't a tone Bennet particularly seemed to mind.

"_I've let Tracy know what's going on, and Hiro's gone to grab Peter, just in case. They should both be back at the station five minutes ago—maybe even for real, knowing Hiro._"

"Good work, Micah," Bennet said. "Now I need visual confirmation that Monroe is alive, so see if you can find him. Check wherever you have to—civilian surveillance, traffic cameras, anything you can find—and don't worry about being discreet. I shouldn't have to tell you how dangerous Monroe is."

"_On it_."

"Whoa," Castle said once Bennet ended the call. He genuinely was a little stunned. "So Big Brother really _is_ watching."

"It isn't _Big_ Brother you need to worry about," Bennet countered dryly.

In spite of the renewed urgency of the case, in the rear-view mirror Castle thought he saw him smirk.

**(—**  
**=)**

"Explain this to me one more time," Montgomery said. "_Slowly_."

Gathered together in the captain's office once more, they had already outlined the situation once. Though with a case as complex as this one had become, even their best efforts had fallen apart into a sort of barely controlled chaos of hard to believe information and strange theories. It was easy for Castle to forget how quickly things could shift, and how much the topography of a case could change before they had the chance to bring their information to Montgomery's attention. Adding onto it the fact that the captain was stuck with not only handling the everyday functions of his station, but also with keeping in contact with Bennet's supervisors in Washington, and Castle didn't envy his job at all.

And that was without taking into consideration how he must feel having one of his detectives locked in a cell.

"Adam Monroe and Konrad were close associates prior to their involvement with the Company," Noah explained, "but in 1977 Konrad helped defeat Adam's attempt at unleashing a virus that could have potentially wiped out the entire human race. Adam escaped Company custody in 2007, managing to kill most of the surviving founders before he staged his second attempt."

"And he was believed killed by another special later that year," Montgomery said, checking his facts as understood from the reports he had already received.

"Yes," Bennet confirmed. "Though obviously we have reason to question it now."

Bennet paused, his expression...unhappy, to say the least.

"Actually, I should have questioned it sooner," Bennet admitted. "After all, with Konrad's regenerative ability neutralized, Detective Ryan simply aged at a normal rate."

"So I take it that reports of Monroe's death were greatly exaggerated," Castle said, the quote falling absently from his lips without effort. Bennet acknowledged with a faint sound.

"Right now, it's useless to spend any effort figuring out how," Bennet said, dismissing it. "We need to focus on _finding_ him. I have a man monitoring surveillance hoping to pick up some sign of him. Apart from a few confirmed sightings, however, he has been very effective in remaining under the radar."

Castle thought calling Bennet's associate a "man" was also somewhat exaggerated, but he kept that observation to himself.

"Do you have reason to believe Dr. Zimmerman's death was part of some greater agenda?" Montgomery asked, real concern writing itself into his features.

It wasn't every day they dealt with someone willing to attempt murder on such a massive scale.

"Yes and no," Kate said. "Monroe managed to stay dead for almost four years. He isn't going to risk that unless he has something specific to gain from it."

"And in this case?" Montgomery asked.

"Revenge," Castle said, jumping in. When Montgomery raised an eyebrow, he went on to explain. "The touches surrounding the case all feel very personal, but there's no motive so far for killing Zimmerman. On the other hand, Adam would have _every_ reason to go after Konrad."

"Go on."

"I think Konrad may have been his real target," Castle said. "I think Zimmerman was murdered to draw Konrad out of hiding—a message Adam couldn't have known was falling on deaf ears. It's even possible that Konrad was right about it being a set up, and that exposing him was always Adam's true aim."

"His exact goals are only conjecture at this point," Bennet said slowly, "but from what we know of Monroe's personality, that motive would seem to fit."

"Alright," Montgomery said, nodding as the idea sunk in. "So what do we do about him?"

"If Adam wanted to draw Konrad out," Kate said, "we might be able to use that to draw him out instead."

"I have an idea, Noah," Peter said.

As promised, Peter and Hiro had been waiting at the station when they arrived. Out of all of them, save Konrad, Peter held the most—and the most recent—information on their suspect. That had earned him a spot inside Montgomery's office during the discussion, but he had remained silent throughout. Finally speaking up, his words drew everyone's attention. His expression seemed somewhat pained, and, Castle thought, inexplicably sheepish.

"But you're _really _not going to like it."


	31. Chapter Seventeen: Bait and Switch

**Chapter Seventeen: Bait and Switch**

_"There's a sucker born every minute."_  
—_wrongly __attributed to P.T. Barnum_

* * *

"_This is a terrible idea_," Noah said, voice crackling distantly through the earwig. "_We can't trust him._"

The words were quiet and nearly indistinct, and Bennet almost certainly hadn't intended for him to overhear them. Hearing that stubborn yet resigned tone of protest in the former agent's voice, he couldn't help but smile.

To say that he had been surprised when Bennet had asked him to act as bait to catch Adam in his own trap would have been an understatement of earthshaking proportions. The idea had to have come from Peter, of course. It held a certain audacity of the sort Angela herself would admire. Adam Monroe was alive, apparently, and if Zimmerman's murder had been intended to send a message there was only one person for whom that message could possibly have been intended.

If the older immortal was aware of Konrad's whereabouts, then it was likely Adam had been keeping an eye on Kevin Ryan's life for quite some time. The detective's colleagues within the NYPD had found the idea very disturbing, and he certainly couldn't blame them for that. They had circled their wagons almost immediately, assigning discrete protection details to Ryan's friends and his fiance, just in case.

Of course, those details meant next to nothing to _him_.

What _did_ impact on him was the plan as they had explained it to him—well, as _Beckett_ had explained. Noah hadn't said a word. If Adam was watching the station, then Ryan had already been out of sight far too long. If a frame job was Adam's ultimate goal, more than likely he suspected his trap had sprung as planned. But he wouldn't move on until he could be sure, of that _everyone_ was certain, and the best way to catch him out was to convince him that his quarry was still free.

It had been an interesting experience, slipping into Detective Ryan's skin. In spite of all they shared in common, he really knew very little about the man in any of the ways that counted. He did have Beckett in his ear, ready to correct any misstep he might make. In any case, he had plenty of experience with things like this. In the past, he had managed to fall easily into roles which had provided a much greater challenge.

He knew more than enough to make a good show of it.

It had become easier as the hours passed and he went through the motions of Ryan's day, each action providing insight to the actions which followed. By nightfall, he felt comfortable enough with the ruse that he could likely have kept it up indefinitely, if required.

Though he hoped that wouldn't be necessary.

Entering Ryan's apartment had provided him with a more intimate introduction to the man he was pretending to be than Detective Beckett could ever have provided. Not that there was much of great interest to see. A few kitchy nicknacks, a sizable and eclectic music collection, a scant library—mostly cheap mysteries and spy novels—a game console and an ugly couch. He had spent several minutes staring at the photos displayed on the walls and tables in the living room—Kevin Ryan and his fiance, Kevin Ryan in his uniform, Kevin Ryan and his friends. He had spent a long time in particular dating those pictures in relation to one another, imagining what it might have felt like growing into the face he now wore.

Pretending to be Kevin Ryan and actually being him were two very different things. It was in his mind to wonder how much of "Konrad" had truly survived in the man left in his place, what memories and traits they might have shared. Where one ended and the other began. It was a very strange experience, examining that duality as an observer from the outside.

It was difficult for him to imagine being this man. It seemed such a waste of potential, becoming someone so ordinary.

In the kitchen he ran a hand thoughtfully over a counter top before opening a cabinet above the refrigerator and uncovering a bottle of bourbon. He located a pair of glasses just as quickly, and on a whim decided to fill both.

After all, with luck any he would be having company tonight.

He had hardly had a chance to taste his drink when he heard a soft click and felt the cold steel barrel of a gun placed against the back of his head. It was pointed directly at the vulnerable spot at the base of the skull—which answered the question of Adam's knowledge of that vulnerability pretty cleanly. Despite his own chagrin at being caught off guard, he couldn't help but be a little impressed by the older immortal's stealth. He hadn't heard a sound.

"I'm disappointed, Kunz, I thought you'd make this much more difficult," Adam said, and he actually did sound disappointed when he said it, though his voice was audibly smug as well.

There was no time for him to respond before Adam pulled the trigger.

The bullet slammed into the back of his head like a hammer, throwing him forward. He slumped against the counter, but managed to catch his weight and did not fall. The pain was bright and intense, and he could feel blood beginning to pour, hot and thick down the back of his neck. Gritting his teeth he struggled past that pain, forcing himself to stand.

"So did I," he said through clenched jaws.

Hearing Adam's startled noise behind him, his lips pulled into a smirk. With a flick of his finger the liquor bottle launched itself from the counter, impacting noisily with the man looming behind him. He turned, twisting his neck at the unpleasant but familiar sensation of the bullet working its way out of his head, thankful not for the first time that he had been able to move that point of weakness elsewhere. Once the hole had sealed up he allowed himself to relax, releasing himself from the disguise of Ryan's form, his hair and eyes darkening even as he regained his height. Finally he reached out with his hand, directing a wall of his will to hold Adam immobile while he spoke into the mic in his sleeve.

"I've got him," Sylar said.

Detective Beckett and her writer friend showed up only minutes later, Noah reluctantly in tow. Though the operation had been a clear success, the former agent looked far from happy—actually, Sylar thought that success might be part of why. While Beckett was engaged in reading Adam his rights, Sylar glanced over at Bennet, throwing him an exaggeratedly good-natured smile.

"Just like old times, huh Noah?"

Noah chose to ignore him, focusing instead on their prisoner. Soon, Sylar noticed he was frowning and turned his attention as well. It didn't take long for him to realize the discordant detail that had caught the other man's attention. Where the bottle had struck Adam's face the glass had laid open a small cut—one that was trickling blood down the side of his cheek, and very noticeably not healing.

"So Arthur did take his ability," Sylar observed with faint surprise, earning him a hateful glare from their captive prisoner. "He's mortal now."


	32. Chapter Eighteen: Served Cold

**Chapter Eighteen: Served Cold**

_Of thirty bare years have I _  
_Twice twenty been enraged, _  
_And of forty been three times fifteen _  
_In durance soundly caged. _  
—_"Tom o'Bedlam"_

* * *

"Ah, here's the Judas. I wondered where you'd got to. Nice to know at least part of the plan went as hoped."

Konrad had been dozing lightly on the bench in his cell, but the voice broke through and woke him very quickly. Sitting up, he turned and saw Adam Monroe being led into the cell next to his. For several moments Konrad could only stare, astonished. In spite of everything Adam had done, seeing him, Konrad felt something that was treacherously akin to relief.

"Angela told me you were dead," Konrad managed finally, once the guards had left.

"Yes, well," Adam said with a dismissive expression. "Maury Parkman was a rat bastard, but he was useful for a few things, and good at what he did. Not that it was easy—there was a reason he was more afraid of disobeying Arthur than he was of betraying me."

And Konrad knew enough that he could read between the lines. Maury's ability had always been one of the truly frightening ones. Though it had been nearly identical to Charles' telepathy, Maury had wielded his power far more ruthlessly. Maury could make a person see, or believe, or do just about anything he wanted. But, for all that was worth, Arthur had been powerful enough on his own that bending his mind would have proven a challenge...

And Arthur had never had patience for either disobedience or divided loyalties. A display of either one was likely what had wound up getting Maury killed.

"So Arthur really believed you were dead," Konrad stated, voicing his theory.

"Not only that," Adam confirmed with a smug smile, "but he was more than eager to let everyone know it."

Konrad chose to accept that answer and move on. He had too many other questions that were much more important.

"You have every right to hold a grudge against me, Fritz, by why go after Zimmerman? Why kill _him_?"

"To draw you out, Kunz," Adam stated simply. "I thought that if having the good doctor served up to you dead on your professional doorstep with an edelweiss pinned on his collar didn't catch your attention, you were no detective at all."

And Konrad realized suddenly that Adam didn't know. Of course he didn't know, how could he? From the outside there wouldn't have been anything to indicate that Kevin Ryan had grown to become more than the simple cover from which he began.

"I haven't quite been myself lately," Konrad excused, distantly, managing a weak laugh.

Adam hardly seemed to notice.

"Next I was going to take his daughter—I know you've always felt so protective of those girls. She was supposed to meet me, but she disappeared shortly after Zimmerman's body was discovered."

"That's an awful lot of trouble to go through for revenge," Konrad said suddenly. Something about Adam's plans weren't quite adding up. "Why not just come after me directly?"

"Oh, revenge was part of it," Adam offered a rueful smile. "The recent revelation of our kind's existence was too great an opportunity for me to ignore. Ultimately, I was hoping you would take the blame for the deaths of Zimmerman and his daughter. I figured letting you rot in a cell for a few decades the way I did was only fair compensation for what you did to me."

And of course, to Adam, the deaths needed to buy that revenge meant absolutely nothing.

"At least I've got that much accomplished," Adam continued smugly. "What happened, Kunz? Did your loving brothers in blue take offense when they discovered the viper living in their midst?"

Konrad ignored him. It was far more complicated than Adam could guess, but none of that was information he felt like sharing. Now that he had been proven innocent of Zimmerman's murder, however, there was hope that things could still work out favorably... Somehow.

Hopefully, his trust in Detective Beckett had not been misplaced.

"And the other part?" Konrad prompted, setting the shaky state of his potential freedom aside.

And at this Adam grew quiet, a bitter, contemplative silence that drew Konrad's attention abruptly. The look on Adam's face was...unpleasant, and though he was smiling there was a cruel twist to his lips.

"I'm dying, Kunz," Adam said quietly, after a while. "I may not be dead yet, but Arthur killed me all the same. My only hope was that your blood might restore what he took from me."

When Adam turned to look at him Konrad saw the stained gauze bandage taped to his cheek. And it was funny how Konrad could accept himself having aged almost ten years so easily when something as small as that could feel so absurdly and heinously _wrong_.

"And you didn't think I'd give it to you," Konrad reasoned, moving past his brief shock.

And though he had no idea if his blood really would have been able to restore Adam's immortality, the sad part was that, even despite Adam's numerous abominable crimes, Konrad probably _would _have given it if he had simply been asked. Yet with the real motive behind Adam's crimes revealed, things made so much more sense, and from the picture that was forming Konrad knew that the other man had imagined it differently.

"Of course not," Adam said blandly. "That was why I needed a hostage. But when Barbara vanished, I had to rethink. I knew it was too dangerous to go after you directly—_I did_ know that, Kunz. I should have had the patience to wait, but I just don't have the time I used to..."

Adam paused, casting Konrad a sideways glance, a wry, unkind smile pulling at his mouth.

"I should have found a new hostage," Adam continued nastily. "Your partner, maybe, or the little blonde. They both seemed so much your type, I couldn't easily tell which one you were sleeping with."

And it was strange how, though he didn't remember enough of Ryan's life to even know who Adam was talking about, Konrad still felt a stirring of dread and anger at the threat. It was jarring, and a little bit terrifying. Konrad didn't know how to handle those sudden, disembodied emotions for people he didn't even know the names of. For the first time since his strange awakening, the real significance of Kevin Ryan's existence—of another _self_ living inside him—was suddenly all too real.

"Of course, even Barbara was simply making do," Adam said, as if his plans to kidnap the woman were entirely inconsequential. "Originally, I'd meant to take one of your sons. Sam was always your favorite, wasn't he? Still, a dying man makes poor leverage."

Those words forced Konrad's thoughts back in line immediately, brutally commanding his full attention.

"What?"

Adam fell silent at Konrad's stunned question, at the horror and shock in his voice. Adam smiled slowly.

"Samson's dying," Adam said, clearly reveling in being the one to deliver the news. "He's dying of cancer. Didn't you know?"

Konrad closed his eyes, trying to think past the frantic, shapeless dread building in his chest. His stomach felt painfully tight. He tried to keep his breathing under control, but his lungs didn't want to listen. He stood, pacing uselessly as he tried to get a grip on himself. He raised his hands, but whatever his intended gesture it was aborted, made awkward by the weight of the chains that circled his wrists. It was a chilling reminder of his situation—of the fact that he had been a captive long before Noah and Detective Beckett had found him. Oddly, that hadn't bothered him before. He had erased himself from the Company, and thought for sure he'd left nothing behind. When they woke him, there had been no sense of urgency, no other place for him to be.

_Now_, though...

Now, for the first time since awakening in their custody, Konrad truly felt trapped. He had to get out of there, and _soon_—out of the cell, away from Adam's _gloating—_or else he might seriously lose what was left of his mind. The swat officers were alarmed and on guard when they came to investigate the noise—because it was funny how a little screaming and banging of chains against the bars could put people on edge—but it had gotten him the attention he wanted.

"Get me out of here," Konrad begged them breathlessly. "Put me in another cell or..._something_. Ask Beckett if I can wait in interrogation or—"

He took a shaking breath, one which threatened to turn into a sob.

"Hell, tell her she can put me back where they found me. I don't _care_..." Konrad said, closing his eyes. "Just get me away from this psychopath."


	33. Interlude 15—Odessa, Texas 1983

**_Konrad & Haram—Odessa, Texas; 1983_**

"There you are," Haram said, once his eyes had focused enough to recognize the figure standing beside the window.

The words were quiet and strained because his throat was very dry, but Konrad must have heard them anyway because he turned away from the window. Konrad stared at him looking uncertain for a moment, though he finally moved closer, taking the chair sitting close to the bed. He didn't speak, however, though it seemed he wanted to. After several moments, Haram grew impatient.

"Was beginning to worry about you, _hayati_," he said sharply. "I've been in this bed for more than a week and I haven't seen you."

It wasn't until he said it that Haram noticed how washed out his partner looked, how tired. Konrad's expression turned anguished at the words and he looked away. It was startling and out of character, and suddenly Haram's pulse began to race.

"Konrad? What is wrong?" Haram asked, worry softening the earlier harshness from his voice.

Konrad closed his eyes, taking a slow breath.

"I _have_ been by to see you, Haram," Konrad said, his voice tight. His eyes remained closed. "I've visited you several times. You just—"

Konrad's breath caught, strangling his voice.

"You just can't _remember_ it," he finished, shaking his head with a weary laugh.

Haram frowned, and the expression pulled a cut on his face that made him wince. The doctors hadn't said anything about brain damage, but perhaps—no, he remembered well enough every minute of his time spent in the Company infirmary. Though he couldn't remember much of the mission that had landed him there, or apprehending their target, but then it made sense that he wouldn't. After all—

Looking at Konrad, Haram saw that his partner sat with his eyes fixed on the hands that rested in his lap. It was like he was grieving. The answer came to him suddenly. For a moment, Haram couldn't breathe. If it was as he suspected...

Haram tried to imagine it. He tried to imagine Konrad coming to him again and again. With no memory of past visits, each time Konrad came his partner's absence would have seemed longer, more significant. Each time he would have been more angry, and each time it would have hurt more—for both of them.

And, each time, Haram would have forgotten that hurt along with everything else...but Konrad would remember.

"Come here," Haram said, softly.

He watched as Konrad looked up at him, seeming to debate with himself before finally moving closer. Once he stood beside the bed, Haram gestured with his good hand for him to lean down. Konrad obeyed, and Haram lifted his hand to grasp the back of his partner's neck, dragging him down gently into a kiss.

Konrad's breath stuttered against his lips, but he eventually gave in. The kiss was long and slow, and careful for reasons that had nothing to do with Haram's injuries. When they finally broke from it, Haram let his hand rest on his lover's face as he reassured him softly.

"Do not worry, _hayati_," he said, "we will find a way."

And Haram didn't know if Konrad believed his words or not—he only hoped it was the first time he had said them.

* * *

**Translation:**

_hayati_ – "my life"

* * *

**Author's Note:** Haram was briefly mentioned in chapters four and six, and appeared exclusively in the _Heroes_ comic "The Golden Handshake".


	34. Interlude 16—Odessa, Texas 1986

**_Konrad & Haram—Odessa, Texas; 1986_**

They had tried for almost a year before they had been forced to concede that it was hopeless. It was impractical to spend every waking moment together just so that Haram could remember him, and in practice it was actually impossible. They might manage to keep it running for as long as a day or two, at most, but sooner or later something happened to interrupt it, and whenever it did those memories unraveled themselves completely.

Hopeless. Utterly hopeless.

Yet, as much as it had hurt to admit, Konrad wished later on that they hadn't tried to hold on so tightly. That they had simply agreed to focus on other things—Haram on learning to work with a new partner, and Konrad on learning how to function within the constraints the Ghost's ability had imposed on him. Neither task had been easy, after all, and maybe if they hadn't tried so hard, if they hadn't tried to_ push_ themselves—

It was useless to speculate on the past, though. Especially when only one of them remembered it.

Still, if they hadn't been so stubbornly committed to making things work, Konrad thought he might have been spared..._this_.

"_Please, hayati..._"

"_...only for tonight..._"

If anyone had suggested forty years ago, before his escape, that anything could possibly be worse than the agony he had already endured, Konrad would have been hard pressed to believe them. If they had suggested nearly thirty years ago, after his life with Sarah and his sons had so painfully ended, that anyone could ever hurt him worse than that he would have laughed bitterly at the thought, still doubting. If asked now, though, Konrad thought he might believe just about anything...

Because he was coming to learn that there was no upper limit to how much a pain a person might feel.

Konrad knew what it felt like to have his heart torn out of him—literally, _repeatedly_. He knew what it felt like to be gutted figuratively, emotionally—to have everything torn away from him, leaving him hollow and empty. Neither of those feelings were something Konrad ever wanted to relive, but to say that he was reliving both of them now might have done an excellent job of expressing his present feelings.

Though, at the same time, it would be paying a great disservice to the unique pain this new torture inflicted on him.

"_...just this once, nuur eni..._"

As it had been with with Sarah and the boys, the pain of his loss cut deeper than any physical wound he had ever had—and physical pain was something about which he knew a great deal. Yet, like his torture at the hands of the scientists at Auschwitz, the real horror wasn't in the pain itself. It was in the dread and the powerlessness. It was_ waiting_ for that pain to return, knowing with certainty that it would—

And knowing just as certainly that he had no means to escape.

Haram hated being forced to accept defeat. Haram would never accept their ending unless he felt he had done all he could to prevent it, and he would never be satisfied that he had unless he addressed the matter with Konrad face to face. But it didn't matter how many times they discussed it—rationally, angrily, bitterly, or in tears. It didn't matter how many long letters or recorded messages Konrad left pleading with him to stop trying. It would never matter.

What Haram needed to finally have the closure he deserved was the one thing Konrad couldn't give him.

Haram could normally accept that things were over, at first, leaving saddened and resigned, but he would forget it in less than a day. How much time then passed usually depended on the circumstances. If Haram had some kind of proof untouched by the ability—a letter, or a voice message, or a video, something permanent that he could touch and relive, and_ remember—_then the time was usually longer. Once, feeling more desperate than usual, Konrad had moved apartments and changed his numbers, and that too had increased the amount of time before Haram approached him again. But, sooner or later, Haram's doubts always got the best of him, and Konrad found himself confronted with the sight of his lover standing on his doorstep once again.

"_...love you, umri..._"

"_...miss you..._"

"_...only for tonight..._"

And perhaps that—perhaps_ just _that—might still have been bearable, but no matter how many times Haram broke his heart, Konrad never had the strength to turn him away.

At the time of his encounter with the Ghost Konrad had possessed few friends inside the Company, and even fewer without. With no way to explain what had happened, those latter had effectively been lost completely. And, if nothing changed, it would be next to impossible to forge any new connections. Given how long Konrad might expect to live, that thought was terrifying. Trapped within a hellish Limbo of obscurity and isolation, Konrad didn't have much at all left to him.

He could seek out a warm body for a one night stand, but the encounter would be one-sided and entirely meaningless, and the thought of leaving a stranger to contemplate that distressing blank spot in their memory was disturbing to him in the extreme. At least with Haram the words whispered in his ear meant_ something_. Haram's hands knew Konrad's body and how he liked to be touched, and his lips were as familiar with the taste of Konrad's skin as Konrad's were with his. And for the few minutes or hours in which they were together, Konrad could almost forget what had happened to him...

Just for a few moments, Konrad could remember what it felt like to really exist.

"..._ana behebbak_..."

It never lasted long. The memories faded quickly after, and any conversation that followed was often laced with bitterness, resentment and regret. And then Haram would leave, forgetting even that much. But Konrad was never afforded that mercy. He would remember. He would remember every moment between then and now and wonder—dreading,_ hoping_—how long he had before it happened again.

"_...the last time, habibi..._"

"_...I promise._"

* * *

**Translations:**  
_hayati _– "my life"

_umri –_ "my life/my everything"

_nuur eni _– "light of my eyes"

_ana behebbak_ – "I love you"

_habibi –_ "beloved"


	35. Interlude 17—Odessa, Texas 1990

_**Konrad & Claude—Odessa, Texas; 1990**_

"You're Konrad, right? The one who's all mysterious. The one the higher-ups whisper about?"

Konrad looked up at the voice, surprised. Few of the newer agents were even aware of his existence—let alone able to address him by name.

The man looked familiar, but that didn't mean much. Konrad managed the file archives, and he saw most of the agents come in and out every day—though once they walked out the doors, most forgot they had seen him at all. The man standing before him was in his early thirties, tall, long-legged and thin, and spoke with a Northern English accent that Konrad identified easily enough, though he couldn't say he remembered it fondly. The man also didn't seem surprised by the undisguised assessment of his person by Konrad's eyes, though Konrad still felt somewhat chagrined when he caught himself.

Having spent the past seven years knowing his actions would immediately be forgotten, some of his social manners had grown a bit lax.

"Sure," Konrad said, setting the files he had been sorting beside him where he sat on his desk, giving the man his full attention. "How do you know me?"

It was a frustrating question, but one Konrad had long grown used to asking to understand just how he had come to earn someone's notice.

"Ivan's spoken about you on occasion," the man said easily, as if the conversation were nothing unusual. Which, if he knew anything at all about Konrad, was possibly some pretense at normalcy meant for his benefit.

The man hesitated a moment before he added, significantly, "And Haram."

Konrad managed to school his reaction to the name, though the man's pause neatly indicated that, yes, he clearly knew a great deal about Konrad. It wasn't the sort of encounter Konrad was used to anymore. It took him a few moments to respond.

"Oh, yes," Konrad said with a faint smile, once he managed to find his voice. "Claude Raines. Our invisible man."

This time it was Claude's turn to look somewhat off balance. Konrad spared him with another smile.

"Being forgettable isn't that different from being invisible," Konrad said, "and I'm not the only one they whisper about."

Claude frowned at that, but Konrad pretended not to notice.

"And I do still talk to Ivan, occasionally," Konrad admitted. He paused. "And Haram...though it's normally less painful for both of us if he lets himself forget."

For a moment, Konrad was tempted to go into exact detail on his painful past relationship with Haram. Over-sharing carried very few consequences for him these days. It wasn't something he did often, but sometimes it felt good just to vent and to watch other people's reactions of embarrassment and horror. But there was something especially solemn in Claude face that was out of character for what he had seen and heard about the man that made him decide not to.

"Thompson has you partnered with Haram these days, doesn't he?" Konrad asked, trying to leave the man an opening for whatever it was Claude had come to him to say.

Claude obliged his expectations, though as his dark expression deepened, Konrad felt dread creeping in.

"That's actually what I want to talk to you about."


	36. Chapter Nineteen: Chaperone

**Chapter Nineteen: Chaperone**

_"I R__EMEMBER__ W__HEN__ A__LL__ T__HIS__ W__ILL__ B__E__ A__GAIN__."_  
—_Terry Pratchett, __Reaper Man_

* * *

"—_not_ a surprise party or anything lame like that. It's just a few friends invited over to celebrate the occasion...without his permission. It's not like my father has very many friends _to_ invite, anyway. _Please_, Javier?"

_Shit_. It was happening again.

Javier's heart started racing almost immediately, but he tried to reign it in and keep calm. He knew what was happening this time. He could do this, he just had to get his bearings. Right now it was day, and he was seated at a booth in some kind of cafe or diner. Across the table sat an oddly dressed young woman who he had apparently been having a conversation with. That was now, whenever _now _was, and before—

His efforts at calm evaporated completely. Only, moments ago it had been closing in on eleven thirty at night, and Javier had been keeping an eye on Konrad through the monitors at the station. Now he was somewhere else—in some other _time_—and that wasn't where Kevin _needed_ him to be.

He needed to get _back_.

He must have said it out loud, or else the woman must have picked up on his rising panic. Her expression was concerned, though she didn't seem surprised by his confusion. When he moved to stand, she reached out and took hold of his wrist.

"Javier—"

"I can't be here," he said, trying to pull away, "I have to get back. Kevin—"

"Kevin is _fine_," the woman said softly, firmly, tightening her grip just a little. "He's off visiting Rick and Kate and he's _fine_. Everyone's fine. Take it easy."

Her tone wasn't quite soothing, and her grip not all that strong, but both were insistent and that made him take a second look at her. Her hair was dyed a rich dark brown and cut in a short, spiked style that, while more or less a fauxhawk, still managed to be quite feminine. Her eyes were strikingly painted with a daring swipe of dark eyeliner and a shine of gold-orange eyeshadow. Her clothes were of an unfamiliar style, her top combining an old-fashioned high, buttoned neckline with shamelessly bare arms, and a pair of long, fingerless gloves with far too many buckles for most of them to have been purely functional. More than anything, it looked like a less ridiculous version of what he had seen during that stupid steampunk case a while back.

A strange aesthetic, unfamiliar though not jarringly so, but odd enough that it had taken him quite a bit of looking for him to recognize her as Claire Bennet.

Javier finally let himself calm down. A little.

"Where am I?" Javier asked cautiously. "And what...year?"

He hazarded the question, hoping that if Claire knew him she might be familiar with his apparently recurring temporal eccentricities. It seemed to pay off. Though she seemed a little confused at the latter question, it certainly wasn't on the scale he would expect if she hadn't understood why he had asked it.

"We're in New York," Claire said slowly, relaxing now that he was relaxed and letting go of his hand. "You and Kevin came back for the weekend to visit family. As for when—"

She broke off, seeming a little surprised.

"Usually," she said, "you just check your watch."

He thought she was joking at first, but decided to humor her with a glance at his wrist. It was the same watch he had been wearing during his first jump, he realized, though then he had never bothered to take a closer look at it. It was a heavy thing, silver or platinum, with accents of a very dark grey that was almost black. Overall it wasn't that unusual, save that the face was somewhat more complicated than most watches he had seen. It showed the month and day, which wasn't uncommon to find on a fancy watch, but oddly it did also displayed the year.

The year _2027_.

_Seventeen years... Jesus Christ._

His mind stalled on that for a bit—it was a lot to digest. And it didn't seem poised to do him any favors any time soon, because in looking at the watch he was soon made very aware of the plain gold band on his ring finger. He looked away from it, trying not to think about how comfortable it felt there. Javier though she caught him staring anyway.

"You've had that watch as long as I've known you," Claire said. "You must have come from a long way back if you've never seen it before."

She didn't specify whether she was talking about the watch or the ring, for which Javier was absurdly thankful.

"Do you know who I am?" she asked him next, and Javier couldn't help but laugh.

"_Everyone_ knows who _you_ are," he said.

Claire made an unpleasant noise, rolling her eyes.

"Ugh, _please_ don't remind me..." Claire muttered, sounding both irritated and resigned.

"So, what do you know?" Javier asked, moments later. "What can you tell me? About what's happening—about what's _going_ to happen?"

"Not much," Claire said with sympathy, shaking her head. "_You_ have personally warned me to watch what I say when you're coming from a long way back. It's too risky."

Javier was about to argue, but she interrupted him.

"Have you met my father yet?"

"Unfortunately yes," Javier said, sitting back in the booth.

He sounded sullen, but he really didn't care. Apparently he was doomed to have a problem with that whole darned family. She didn't bat an eye at his the animosity in his voice. Though that struck him as somewhat odd given that, just a few minutes ago, it had almost sounded like she was inviting him to the man's birthday party.

"And have you met Konrad?" Claire asked him carefully.

Javier stilled. A few seconds passed before he could find his voice.

"Let's just say we haven't _conversed_," Javier managed finally.

His cowardice on that front still stung him, and he wasn't quite able to meet her eye. Claire nodded quietly, accepting that answer.

"Then there's not really a whole lot I can say," she told him regretfully.

"Then can you tell me how to get back?" Javier demanded.

Because if he wasn't going to get anything useful out of this, then he really needed to—

"You _can't_," Claire said. "I'm sorry, but you have to wait it out."

"Not acceptable," Javier said—and he didn't understand how this time travel thing worked, but his future self couldn't really think he could push without expecting him to push back. "I _need_ to be there. I need to be there for—"

"For Kevin. I know," Claire interrupted, sounding a little amused but also painfully sympathetic. "And you will be. You _are_. Don't think for a moment that the you that is supposed to be _here_ doesn't still have Kevin's best interests in mind."

"Well lets just say I don't exactly trust _his_ opinion of what Kevin's _best interests_ might be."

Because how could Javier trust the person that had let all this happen? How could he trust the man who had let Kevin find out about himself in perhaps the worst possible way imaginable? Javier couldn't even begin to reconcile putting his partner through that kind of pain as something that he could have ever done.

To Javier's frustration Claire laughed softly, and he struggled to remind himself that he wasn't really talking to a teenager, but a woman in her thirties.

"And why is that funny?" Javier asked sharply.

"Sorry," Claire said, reigning herself in and throwing him an apologetic smile. "It's just something my dad used to say. He used to talk about how parallel yours and Kevin's situations were when it all started. How often you each wound up second guessing and fighting yourselves. Only, where Kevin was afraid of his past, _you_ were afraid of your future."

And there was a lot Javier could have chosen to say about Bennet's observation, but a waitress had come to deliver the bill.

"I can see why he's so _popular_," Javier said instead, not bothering to hide the irritation in his voice.

Claire simply made an amused noise as she looked over the bill, punching a few buttons on some kind of phone or hand-held computer—it was hard enough telling them apart in _his_ time—before slipping it into her purse and standing.

"Come on."

When Javier raised an eyebrow at that, Claire only looked him over patiently with a hand on her hip.

"I don't know how long your fugue will last," she said. "It could be hours, and I don't plan to just sit around and wait for that to happen. It's useless to continue making plans until it ends, though, and I can't just leave you running around."

"So you plan to babysit me?" Javier asked incredulously.

"Think of me as a chaperone," she offered instead.

When he still failed to stand, she sighed.

"Look," Claire said, "if whatever you're caught up in the middle of is so urgent then take this time to _relax_ a bit. We'll walk off lunch, and find something to talk about that won't break the universe. You'll thank yourself later...maybe even literally."

And the truly frustrating thing was, whether he wanted to or not, Javier really didn't have a better idea. Regardless of what she had said, if he stubbornly refuse to go he thought she probably _would_ wait on him. If he took off on his own, she might have tried to follow. Though it wasn't as if he had any place to go, or any reason to stay, so following her was really the best option he had at that moment.

Javier relented with a sigh and moved to stand. It was only then that he registered the odd numbness in his left knee. Unsteady, he almost didn't catch the back of the booth in time to stop himself from falling over. The man at the booth behind him was already standing, and took a step closer as if concerned.

"Are you alright, sir?" the man asked.

When the man glanced over at Claire, uncertain, she waved him off with a nod.

"He's fine," she said quickly. "He just stood up to fast."

The man backed off a little, though he didn't seem quite convinced. Javier was still too confused and alarmed to involve himself in the exchange. He sat back down in the booth, slowly. His leg didn't feel asleep, it felt like... He didn't know what it felt like. He placed a hand on his knee, and his fingers found something hard and unyielding beneath the fabric of his slacks. He didn't think it was simply a brace.

"Shit..." he swore under his breath.

There was a simple dark wooden cane leaning up against the booth where he sat. Steadying himself with a shaking breath Javier picked it up and stood again, slowly. His first few steps were awkward, but after a while he let his legs fall where they wanted to. Once he did, he found he could maneuver himself easily enough. Apparently, his body remembered things about how it was supposed to move that his mind hadn't needed to learn yet. He tried not to think of the other evidence he had seen of that during his first jaunt.

Claire's expression was oddly guilty as she turned toward the door. Javier followed.

As they left, Javier took note of a few things. For one he was armed, which seemed strange to him if he really was in New York for a visit and this really had been a casual lunch. Though he supposed that, after nearly two decades, his habits concerning when he went armed could easily have changed. He also noticed that their exit was of interest to a few curious cameras. A brief glance over his shoulder also showed him that the man from the cafe was following them at a discreet distance—and that he too was armed under the very professional looking suit that he wore.

"Is he your detail or mine?" Javier asked casually as he caught up with Claire—uneasily thankful when he managed to match her brisk pace without difficulty.

"Mine," Claire acknowledged with a rueful smile. "Yours blend in better."

Javier didn't miss the plural that was implied. Though he was uncomfortable not knowing which of the strangers around them were apparently guarding his safety, he decided to take her word for it and didn't look for them. If there really was the need for that kind of security, then advertising his current disadvantage would be the most foolish thing he could possibly do.

As they passed down the street, Javier kept his eyes aimed ahead of him. The city itself didn't seem to have changed much if he didn't look close, and the crowds at street level had hardly changed at all. As dense as ever, the crush of bodies around them made it easy to keep his eyes away from the windows of the buildings he passed. There would be a young woman reflected in the glass, and a man in his fifties walking beside her...

A man Javier wasn't certain he wanted to meet.

They made it a few blocks before Javier could finally bring himself to ask the question that had been on his mind since before they left the cafe.

"It's artificial, isn't it?" he asked, proud of the steadiness he managed in his voice. "A prosthetic."

"The knee, but not your lower leg," Claire clarified, answering him briskly, and without pause in her stride.

"How did it happen?" Javier demanded. "How _does_ it happen?"

"I can't tell you that, Javier," Claire said unhappily.

"_Bullshit_," Javier said, because he was getting so _sick_ of that answer.

He was a little surprised when Claire stopped, turning toward him angrily.

"Bullshit nothing, Javier," she said, sharply. "_Think_ about it. You know about it now, which means you _knew—_when? Fifteen? Twenty years ago? Whenever you've come from you're also there right now, and you _know_. So don't you think you would have tried to help yourself save your damned knee? The fact that you _didn't_ means either you couldn't do it, or else it wasn't worth the price."

Javier didn't know what to say to that, so for a moment he just stared. Once her momentum wore out a bit she heaved a sigh that was almost apologetic. Once she spoke again her voice was a lot softer, the look in her eye pleading.

"Your life hasn't been perfect, Javier," Claire said, "but more than anyone I know it's been the life that _you_ have chosen it to be. If you can't trust yourself, try to trust that, at least."

And Javier absolutely didn't know what to say to _that_.

Unable to articulate anything out of the chaos of his thoughts, Javier looked away. Sweeping his eyes over a city still surprisingly familiar after so much time had passed, he wondered how he could possible have ever left. But, although it was far from the only change to catch his notice, one particular feature stood out against that familiarity in a way that was vaguely grating. At first he couldn't quite place why that one skyscraper should have caught his eye more than any other. Silvery, angular and reflective, it rose high over the others around it, but it wasn't simply the height, he was sure—

No, after a few moments he realized what was wrong. Javier had never seen that building before, not like he was now from the street—but at the same time, it seemed vaguely familiar, and he was stunned when he realized why.

That building wasn't finished yet in 2010—perhaps less than half—but he had seen enough pictures of what it was going to look like that once it finally clicked he recognized it very easily. It was part of the new World Trade Center—the tallest part of the complex being constructed at the site of the attacks. And it was alarming how quietly the thought snuck in, as if it were normal...as if it were _sane—_

That was the place where his partner had truly been born.

"Javier?"

And it was truly appalling, realizing it that way—and worse once it dawned on him that it didn't stop there.

"_Javier_?" Claire shook him in an attempt to bring him back to himself. It only worked halfway, for while he manged to meet her eyes he was still lost in his horror at the thoughts whirling in his head.

"He wouldn't exist," Javier whispered, his voice a small, choked thing even he could barely hear.

"I don't understand, Javier, who?" Claire looked worried now.

She was holding on to his arms as if she were afraid he might wander off, like before grounding him with her presence—though right now it was the last thing he wanted. He wanted to go back, he wanted the world to make sense again. He didn't want _this_—this sudden, soul-deep awareness of everything that had needed to happen in order for Kevin and him to even meet.

It was _too much_.

Without his role in the Holocaust, Konrad might never have met Adam Monroe. He would have aged, and possibly died years ago. Without the bombing of Dresden, Konrad might have stayed in Germany after the war had ended—never gotten involved with the Company—and they still would never have met. And without the events of 9/11 their meeting might still have happened, and they might even have wound up partners... But while the man he would have known might have called himself Kevin Ryan, he wouldn't have _been_ him. Not really.

And Javier didn't realize he had been saying those things out loud—though probably not making much sense as he said them—until he saw Claire's face and the sympathetic tears in her eyes... Which was kind of comforting, in an odd sort of way, because two people crying in the middle of the sidewalk probably looked a lot less crazy than only one.

"How am I even supposed to feel about that, Claire?" Javier asked, though he knew she wouldn't have an answer. Twenty years in the future or a hundred, he couldn't imagine himself ever having an answer. "Should I be _grateful_? Should I _not_ be? He's my best friend. He's my _partner_. He's—"

Javier stood alone in a hallway at the precinct. He was still breathing heavily from his breakdown on the street, but in the present his throat hadn't yet worked up to the choking lump that had lived there only seconds before. Looking at his left hand, he saw that his ring finger was bare, and he was wearing the same cheap sports watch he had put on that morning. He scrubbed a hand over his face and closed his eyes, trying to get a grip on himself while he still had the chance. A few slow, deep breaths managed to dull his frantic thoughts, calming them to a quieter dread he could shove away from the forefront of his mind. He couldn't afford to worry about any of that. Not right now...

He was back. Finally. He was back where he belonged—where he could _handle _things—and he desperately needed to see his partner.

As he made his way back to holding, Javier noticed that a few minor details had changed. He didn't know what his future self had been up to while he was away, but Javier though he might have left the station, because he was wearing a hoodie underneath his jacket. That uneasy thought prompted him to check his pockets. He had his keys and his wallet with him, which seemed to support that theory. Though if the other had left, it obviously couldn't have been for long.

And, in the pocket of his jacket, Javier found a folded post it note, on which his future self had apparently written a single word:

"Chaperone."

It seemed like a very odd thing to have done, and Javier immediately wondered if there was some reason behind it—if it was some code or clue that would be important later. Unfortunately, he didn't get a chance to ponder it for long.

"Javier?"

Javier turned suddenly at the sound of Kate's voice, and decided he would have to make an effort not to seem as off balance as he felt. He wasn't sure if she had noticed, but either way she seemed rather relieved to see him.

"I've been looking everywhere for you," Kate said, sounding confused and a little concerned. "Konrad's back in the interrogation room, and we're just waiting for Peter to show up and fix all this."

"Yeah, I— Sorry," Javier's managed, and he could barely think—because finally, _finally_ this nightmare would be over. "Sorry, I— I just needed some air."

Kate seemed to understand that answer—or at least seemed willing to accept it—because she gave a sympathetic nod and let it go, turning toward interrogation. Javier followed. Despite his earlier aversion to being anywhere near Reichardt, there was no way he wasn't going to be there this time. And if Bennet even tried to keep him out again, Javier would make him regret it.

When they got him back—when Kevin opened his eyes again—Javier wanted to be there to see it.

Close on Kate's heels, Javier was near enough to feel her tense as the door swung open. Looking past her into the room Javier froze. He was distantly aware of Kate swearing, of her shouting down the hall for officers as she began to organize the search. It all sort of fell into the background for him as he stared at the empty interrogation room, and the cuffs that lay abandoned in center of the table, and the sick reality of it finally hit home, leaving Javier utterly numb.

Konrad was gone—and with him their only hope of ever getting Kevin back.


	37. Chapter Twenty: Hide and Seek

**Chapter Twenty: Hide and Seek**

_Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer._  
—_The Godfather Part II (1974)_

* * *

Javier had no idea how long he stood there, frozen in the goddamned doorway like an idiot as he struggled vainly to process what had happened.

This was his fault. It was his fault no matter how he looked at it. He had failed his partner—first in his cowardly refusal to face Reichardt, and then by leaving his partner's side when Kevin had needed him there the most. And though Javier's control in that situation had been stolen from him, even that could not excuse him. While the choice might have been taken from him in _this_ time, it had fallen into the hands of his future self. That man had chosen to let their only chance to get Kevin back slip through his fingers.

_No—stop. Focus._

Javier closed his eyes and forced himself to control his rapid breathing and to reach past the panic clouding his thoughts. Because if he forced himself to think about it rationally—as far as the word even applied anymore—he knew it wasn't as bad as it seemed. Because Kevin had _been_ there. That first time he had found himself in the future Kevin had been there. Javier had seen him with his own eyes. He called that image to his mind, holding onto it and forcing himself to _breathe_ and to remember that he had seen proof first hand that they would get Kevin back, and that—

And that _somehow _Kevin had managed to sneak up on him while Javier had been standing in front of a mirror in an empty restroom.

_It doesn't sound like Claude's style..._ Bennet had said during Konrad's interrogation. _Too...visible._

Javier's breath caught before that recollection even had the chance to turn into a complete thought. With his eyes still closed, as he held his breath it was quiet enough that he managed to hear a soft sound—a breath or the movement of cloth maybe. It was just faint enough that he couldn't tell what it was, but he heard it all the same. And when he opened his eyes, slowly, the room in front of him still appeared to be empty, but he knew it wasn't. He _knew—_

The room wasn't empty, and the only reason it wasn't was _because_ Javier was still standing in the goddamned doorway...

Javier reached slowly into his jacket. Listening tensely, he didn't miss the soft intake of breath as he drew his gun. And there was no target in front of him at which to aim, but he raised the weapon anyway.

"Freeze," he demanded.

He had almost no warning before the unseen weight of another body collided with his in what absolutely felt like a shoulder-check. It was almost successful in knocking him off his feet—it _was_ successful in knocking him out of the way. But Javier was able to let the momentum turn him around as it passed so that he was facing the route of escape. And then there was no choice but for Javier to do the only thing he still _could_ do—

He fired.

Javier aimed six shots blindly down the empty hallway—a reckless fucking move, and just as desperate. Four of them impacted harmlessly with the far wall, but two of them bloomed bright red in midair. There was a grunt of pain, and suddenly Konrad became visible as he tumbled to his knees.

Javier caught up to him quickly, biting back a twist of nausea as he watched the bullet work its way out of his partner's shoulder and—_ Jesus_, what had he done?

_It's not Kevin_, Javier reminded himself harshly, swallowing._ It's not him. _

But, _God_, once Konrad turned to face him—once he saw the pain in the man's face, and the ragged exit wound and the bright scarlet stain soaking through the front of his vest—it was so hard for Javier to _believe_ that.

_Breathe. Think. _Focus_._

And though the sight of Kevin on his knees and _bleeding_ on the floor in front of him made his chest tighten, Javier did force himself to breathe and to hold his gun steady as he kept his aim on the downed man.

"I said '_freeze_', goddamn it."

The pain smoothed away from Konrad's expression quickly enough as he looked up at Javier. Just for a second Javier saw something else there—not recognition, but a kind of disarmed confusion in the other man's eyes that he couldn't quite put a name to. It was only apparent for a short moment, quickly hidden behind a bright, unconcerned smile.

And Javier had seen that smile several times—during an interrogation or across a poker table, and just once while his partner was being _tortured_—but Javier had never seen it aimed at _him_, like he was a stranger.

"Don't think we've met yet," Konrad said conversationally, as if a bullet hadn't just torn through his guts. "You a cop or a Company man?"

"I'm your worst nightmare if you even _think_ about trying to set foot outside this precinct," Javier answered him sharply.

And where he had even found the _bravado_ for it, Javier really couldn't say, because as even as his voice sounded it wouldn't have taken very much at all to shove him back into the maw of total panic.

Konrad looked him over thoughtfully, his smile turning more sincere—curious and sympathetic—as he worked his way to his feet. He looked at the gun in Javier's hands speculatively, patient but not at all close to impressed. The blood had already stopped seeping from the wound in his stomach, and Konrad just _stood there_, watching him carefully. And that was when finally managed to sink in that Konrad didn't see Javier and his gun as a threat or an obstacle but as an _inconvenience_—

At _best_.

And it all would have been so much easier if he only _looked_ like Kevin, but Konrad also sounded like him, in his voice and even a little bit in his words. He _moved_ like Kevin. His facial expressions spoke a language Javier had long grown fluent in—a language he could still half read, even though deep down he hardly knew this man at all. Javier doubted almost anyone else would have seen Konrad's slight hesitation as the immortal stared him down and looked at him with an expression which was stubbornly determined and—_again_, if it were Kevin—just a little regretful.

"Listen, kid," Konrad said softly, raising his hands in a neutral pose that was likely meant to be nonthreatening, but failed spectacularly, "you don't want to get in my way."

Javier clamped down on his irritation at the slight, and kept his grip on the gun steady.

"Call me 'kid' again," Javier said, evenly. "I _dare_ you."

And Konrad's gaze lit with a fierce energy not unlike what he had leveled on Bennet in interrogation—eyes narrowing on Javier, not with anger but with _purpose_.

"If that's the way you want to play this..." Konrad said, shaking his head, though his mouth drew into a faint, taunting smile. "_Kid_."

**(—**  
**=)**

When Kate and the other officers found him, drawn back by the sound of gunfire, Javier was standing in the hallway with a hand pressed tightly to the back of his head. He had a split lip, and there was a throb across his left cheek that he could already tell was going to bruise pretty darkly. Kate swept a cautious eye over the hall before she lowered her gun to approach, looking him over carefully.

"What happened here?" Kate asked.

"Konrad," Javier managed tightly. "He can turn invisible. He was still here, and he got past me and I—"

He caught himself, swallowing and wetting his lips only to wince at the sting.

"He got my gun," Javier said finally, not quite daring to meet Kate's eye. "He was headed toward the stairwell on the east side of the building."

A few of the officers headed off immediately, and Kate quickly sent the rest after them. Once they had gone, she took a moment to squeeze his shoulder, forcing him to look and to make eye contact as she held his gaze with her own.

"We'll find him, Javier," Kate said firmly. "I _promise_."

And Javier couldn't say anything to that, he simply nodded.

Once she was out of sight Javier felt the cool pressure of the gun Konrad had taken from him ease away from the back of his head, and he let himself relax just a little. The grip around his wrist still held tight, however. And, unfortunately for him, with his hand pressed his head like that, obviously injured, and with the immortal standing unseen behind him, Javier didn't even look like he was being led.

"Good," Konrad's voice said, a low whisper in his ear. "Now take me to the parking lot. Your car."

Seeing no immediate way out of his current situation, Javier did as he was told. Kate would have kicked him for it, but he found that gun at his back ridiculously reassuring. As long as Konrad was holding him hostage Javier knew where he was, and even the constant threat of injury was preferable to losing track of him—losing _Kevin_—entirely. And Javier hated not being in control of his circumstances, but there were degrees. Javier could handle something like Konrad holding him at gunpoint—an obstacle he could face and _fight_ if he had to—but just seeing that empty room had almost broken him completely.

Which wasn't to say Javier was happy about it—he absolutely wasn't. And it was small comfort, but Konrad didn't seem ecstatic about the situation either. He had dropped the invisibility once they reached the parking garage and found it empty. Once they reached Javier's car, Konrad had him raise his hands as he fished through his jacket, digging out Javier's keys and wallet. Javier watched the joyless expression on the other man's face as he pocketed the cash from the wallet.

"Listen...Detective Esposito," Konrad said, pulling the name from Javier's driver's license, "I really am very sorry about this, but you haven't given me much of a choice."

He even sounded sincere, but Javier wasn't feeling generous enough to accept the apology of a man in the progress of mugging him. He chose to say nothing, and watched Konrad's expression twist into something even more unhappy, and just a little ashamed.

"Look, I'm not stupid," Konrad continued, forcing himself to look Javier in the eye. "If I were just a suspect to you people, you could have just unlocked my memories and been done with it. But you didn't. You walled off Ryan's memories in my head and I know _why_."

He paused, shaking his head as if still trying to make sense of it—which Javier seriously wished him luck with, because if Konrad ever managed to figure it out, the man might be able to give _him_ some advice.

"You're NYPD, right?" Konrad continued wearily. "Ryan's a friend of yours, and you want him back. I understand that...and I'm _not_ trying to stop you."

And Javier was thrown for a moment, because he didn't think he could possibly have heard that right.

"What?"

Seeing that he had Javier's attention, Konrad took a breath, hesitating.

"I only want one thing," Konrad said slowly, "and I _promise_ you can march me right back in my cage."

Konrad paused a moment, allowing that to sink in before he continued.

"Adam just told me that my son is dying," Konrad said, his voice turning alarmingly fragile as he spoke. "I haven't seen Sam in fifty years. Please. _Please_, just... Let me do this. Just _this_. Let me say goodbye to my son."

And his voice did break at that, and Javier saw the beginnings of tears in the man's eyes.

"Please?" Konrad asked him again. "If I go back now—if I become Ryan again—I won't _get_ another chance."

His tone was so pleading and hurt and earnest that Javier had to listen very closely to the words themselves rather than the emotion in them in order to ignore the stubborn part of himself that kept wanting to forget that it wasn't Kevin that was speaking. And the intelligence they had on Konrad didn't say anything about a son. Despite his every instinct screaming at him that Konrad was telling the truth—or, perhaps, even more _because_ of them—Javier didn't know if he could trust him.

"_Adam _apparently hates your guts. How do you know it's not a trap?" Javier eventually managed, finally latching onto a thought he could use.

"Doesn't matter," Konrad said, shaking his head. "I can't just walk away. Fifty years from now—a _hundred_ years from now—I'd rather regret something that I _did_ than something I didn't do. I have to do this."

And Javier hurt for him, he really, honestly did, in spite of himself. But he had made a promise, and this was his last chance to keep it.

"I can't just let you go," Javier said, voice calm and more sure than he had actually felt for a very long time. "I promised Kevin I wouldn't let him out of my sight. If your plan is to walk out of here, you're going to have to shoot me, because the only way it's going to happen is if I'm dead first."

Javier took a step forward—toward Konrad—until his chest came up against the muzzle of the gun. Konrad studied his face, eyes wide and a little stricken by the ultimatum. For several seconds, Javier didn't think either one of them so much as drew a breath. With the barrel pressed against his sternum, Javier _felt_ Konrad hesitate. And Javier had to wonder if, somehow, Kevin was in there fighting this, because that confused expression from before crossed Konrad's face again.

Slowly, Konrad lowered his gun.

"Then come _with_ me," Konrad said finally.

And, suddenly, everything fell into place.

"Chaperone," Javier managed dully, remembering the note. The word was a toneless mumble stripped of any expression by his surprise.

"Sure, whatever," Konrad said with a confused blink, possibly interpreting it as a question. "What do you say?"

And Javier could have probably said a lot of things, but all that he could manage at first was an odd, strangled laugh. Because no matter how he chose to look at this new option, it was impossible for him to feel like he actually had a _choice_.


	38. Chapter Twenty-One: Follow the Leader

**Chapter Twenty-One: Follow the Leader**

_Behind every exquisite thing that existed, there was something tragic._  
—_Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray_

* * *

_Jesus, how is this even happening..._

They had successfully made it out of the garage and onto the street. Now, they were several blocks away from the station and counting, headed—Javier didn't have a clue where, and Konrad hadn't seen fit to give him any directions yet. Truth be told, Javier was almost afraid to ask. As he thought about it, though, it occurred to him that if Konrad really hadn't seen his son in as long as he claimed, and having lived as Javier's partner for the better part of the last decade, it was entirely possible—no, overwhelmingly _likely_—that Konrad might not know his son's exact whereabouts either.

That could complicate things, fast.

Javier's fingers gripped the wheel tightly as he fought with the idea, but after a moment he gave up with a frustrated noise, reaching into his jacket. The move startled Konrad just a little, though the only sign was a slight twitch of the hand holding the gun where it rested in his lap. Javier didn't look at him as he handed over his cell phone—keeping his eyes on the road was a welcome excuse for that—but he could almost feel the man's suspicion as he took it.

"Go into my contacts," Javier said. "Find Beckett's number and dial it."

"Why?" Konrad asked, not bothering to keep the confusion out of his voice

"Look," Javier said, glancing over briefly, and, yeah, Konrad's baffled expression was just a little bit hilarious, all things considered, "you want to find your son, we'll find your son. But that'll be easier if we don't have the NYPD on our ass—"

A thought occurred to Javier, and he frowned.

"Or Bennet, for that matter," he added. "Just...let me talk to Kate, and I might be able to buy us some time."

And he still couldn't believe he was doing this. But it would help _un_complicate things, and in the long run that would help him get Kevin back.

"And if it's really been fifty years I'm guessing you probably don't have the most current information on where he is," Javier said, sharing his earlier deduction, which Konrad helpfully confirmed by looking away. "If we ask really nicely, Kate might just be talked into doing some of the work for us."

Javier watched Konrad weigh the suggestion from the corner of his eye, saw him slowly shake his head as he relented.

"Alright," Konrad said as he worked the phone. He fumbled a little bit at first managing the touch screen—nine years behind on technology wasn't nothing anymore—but once he figured it out he navigated through Javier's contacts quickly enough. "But I control the details we give them. And if you try and pull something, I'm taking off on my own, and you'll never see your partner again."

Konrad delivered the threat tensely. Javier's hands tightened on the wheel again, knuckles white as he tried to focus past the spike of terror the words inspired. Konrad clearly knew the value of the leverage he held over them—or part of it, at least. And Javier had never mentioned anything about him and Kevin being partners, so Konrad must have worked that bit out on his own.

Javier was forced to put that train of thought aside when Konrad turned on the speaker as the phone began to ring. It was picked up almost immediately.

"_Javier? Where are you?_" Kate asked, and though her voice was thin through the speaker, her concern was still audible.

"I'm with—Reichardt," Javier answered hesitantly. Hostage or not, he still felting guilty for his deception in the hall. "I'm sorry, Kate, he got my gun, and—"

"_Don't worry about that,_" Kate said quickly. "_Are you okay?_"

"I've got a headache," Javier commented, glancing at Konrad for a moment, "or _two_, but I'm fine. Look. Konrad wants to—"

"Listen, Detective Beckett," Konrad interrupted. "I'm sorry for pulling a runner, but there's some unfinished business I need to take care of before— Before you people do whatever it is you plan to do. Your detective understands why. If he cooperates—if _you_ cooperate—I promise I'll come right back and hand myself over without trouble. Trust me as you'd trust him, and this will all end just fine."

And Konrad switched on the safety of the gun where it lay in his lap, flashing Javier an encouraging smile. Javier frowned briefly, but released a faint sigh.

"I'm not under duress," Javier offered, decoding the intent of Konrad's gesture. He paused, considering. "Or any kind of control that I'm aware of. He didn't have to take me with him, Kate. I'm willing to play along as long as he keeps his word and we get Kevin back. Do you think you can help us out with finding an address?"

He heard Kate's hesitation over the line. He really couldn't blame her. What he was asking her to do went so far past just being risky that it was insane.

"_Okay_," she said, finally.

Javier looked over at Konrad expectantly.

"Is Bennet listening?" Konrad asked.

"_No_," Castle said, cutting into the conversation. "_It seems his 'contact in Chennai' is only twelve years old, and he's getting yelled at by her father for getting her involved in a murder investigation. Apparently he's promised to tear Bennet's head off, and that isn't necessarily an idle threat._"

Konrad gave a surprised frown, covering the speaker with his hand.

"Who is that?" he asked quietly.

"Beckett's partner, Castle," Javier told him quickly. "It's fine."

Konrad must have decided to take his word for it, because he removed his hand from the phone.

"I'm going to give you the information on who I'm looking for," Konrad said. "You will _not_ share it with Bennet."

"_You won't trust him, but you'll trust me?_" Kate asked, skeptically.

"I don't trust anyone right now," Konrad said, though Javier was somewhat confused by the brief glance the other man threw his way. "But _hell no_, I don't trust Bennet. If you knew a quarter of what I did about the Company, you wouldn't trust him either."

A few seconds passed.

"_Okay_," Kate said. "_You have my word._"

Konrad looked to Javier questioningly. He responded with a nod, confident not only of what Kate's word meant to her, but of how much Kevin meant to them both.

"We're looking for a Martin Andrew Gray," Konrad said, "spelled with an 'A', born to Sarah Watson in Brooklyn in 1945. He ran a watch shop called Gray & Sons, also in Brooklyn, until 1993 when he...relocated. Current place of residence unknown."

And it was more than a little eerie hearing Konrad rattle off information to Kate just like Kevin would on any other case.

"_Alright. I'll see what I can pull up. I'll send it to your phone when I have it._"

Konrad hung up the phone, seeming satisfied.

"I thought his name was Sam?" Javier asked, not looking at the other man.

Konrad shifted in his seat, clearly uncomfortable, but Javier didn't think the gesture as exactly _guilty_.

"If we want to find Sam, we need to talk to Martin," Konrad said finally. "If anyone knows where he is, it's his brother."

"You don't think Beckett could find him on her own?" Javier asked, feeling irrationally offended.

Konrad hesitated in his answer, and this time Javier thought there _was_ a bit of guilt in it.

"If Beckett could find Samson, the Company would already have found him by now," Konrad said slowly, voice quiet. "If they had, he wouldn't be dying. He'd be dead."

There was enough grief in Konrad's voice that Javier didn't want to ask right away. He filed it away, though, in case it became important later.

They drove on in silence after that, still with no destination in mind. Several minutes later, Kate send them the information in a text to his phone. Konrad read it and smiled.

"Is Kate the roses type, or would she prefer chocolates?" Konrad asked, jokingly.

"She'd prefer to kick your ass..." Javier answered as he found himself frowning at the address of another watch shop in Baltimore.

"I am _not_ driving to Maryland," Javier said firmly, faintly annoyed when Konrad's response was a patient smile.

"Well, you could let _me_ drive," Konrad said, "but I'm guessing having your hands on the wheel helps support the illusion you have any control over what's going on."

Javier though he should feel a lot more insulted by the words than he did, but it was said lightly, sarcastically, and sounded just enough like the kind of jibe he and Kevin tossed at each other all the time that, even though he knew it was Konrad saying it, Javier found it difficult to be angry.

"And if we get there and it turns out Samson is still in New York?" Javier asked, managing _irritated_. "Can't you just call him?"

Konrad's short-lived mirth subsided.

"Martin won't talk to me over the phone," he said softly, looking out the window. "I have to talk to him in person."

"And having you waltz into his shop is going to go down so much better?" Javier asked skeptically.

Konrad sighed, looking down at Kevin's ruined shirt and vest with a frown.

"Yeah," Konrad said absently, lifting a hand to remove the stained tie. "I might be getting shot again today."

Javier weighed the consequences of asking, but finally decided that if there really was any chance of that he would just as soon not _also_ get shot for not having the information he needed.

"Why the bad blood between you and Martin?" Javier asked as he watched Konrad unbutton the coat.

Konrad's fingers stilled. He didn't look at Javier, but after a few moments let out a weary sigh.

"I was the only father Martin ever knew," Konrad said, "but he wasn't really mine. Not by blood. His real father died during the Battle of Metz, two years before I met Sarah."

He let out another slow breath, shaking his head.

"All his life that never mattered, not to him, or his mother, or to me... Not until the day Sarah realized I wasn't aging, and I finally admitted the truth to all of them. Who I really was—_what_ I was—and the lies I'd told them. Martin never forgave me for that."

Konrad paused, quiet for a moment.

"And when I left, Sarah made me promise I'd never come near her family again," Konrad finished, his voice edged with a tired ache. "I don't think Sam ever forgave me for _that_."

Konrad continued unfastening the buttons in silence, finally shrugging out of Kevin's suit coat and vest. The blood stains stood out starkly against the light blue fabric of the shirt underneath. Javier watched Konrad remove the detective's pin from the lapel of the coat before he chucked both it and the vest into the back seat. There was a faint smile on his lips as he looked at the pin before slipping it into his pants pocket.

"Give me your jacket," Konrad said suddenly.

"What?"

"My shirt has _bullet holes_ in it," Konrad said slowly, as if he believed Javier could have somehow missed that detail, "and I'm not visiting my sons covered in blood. You probably want to get this over with as soon as possible, so I'm guessing a detour is out. If I zip it up over the front of my shirt, it should at least cover the stains."

Javier hesitated, less out of any objection than simply his mind stumbling over the insanity of the need itself.

"Or you could not, and we can probably get pulled over like this," Konrad said simply. "Then we'll _really_ end up losing some time."

"Fine," Javier said gruffly, waiting for the next light to remove his jacket.

He passed it over to Konrad, who had the audacity to accept it with a smile.

"Just...try _not_ to get shot again, okay?" Javier said, trying to keep himself grounded in spite of how insane it all was.

"_Jawohl_," Konrad responded—not without a note of sarcasm, but Javier let it slide.

He was too busy trying not to stare as Konrad zipped the jacket closed over the blood.

"Did it hurt?" Javier surprised himself by asking.

He was even more surprised by Konrad's dismissive shrug.

"I've had worse."

Javier's mind flew back over Kaito's letter, and its mention of what Konrad endured in Auschwitz, but his mind mercifully shied away from those details.

"Like that crazy scar from the picture?" Javier found himself asking instead. "Did you get that in the war?"

And this was what constituted small talk, apparently. He was on a road trip with his partner's Nazi supervillain alter-ego, making _small talk_ because this was his life now...

"You mean my _Schmiss_?" Konrad asked, smiling fondly. "I got that in _college_."

"College," Javier managed tonelessly.

"Fencing," Konrad explained with a shrug. "I fenced in college."

And it was clearly a sign he had been spending too much time around Castle, but Javier found himself almost disappointed.

"So that's it? That's the big story behind the scar? A _fencing_ accident?" Javier asked, a little baffled. "I mean, not that I know anything at all about fencing, but aren't there usually helmets?"

"For Olympic fencing, sure," Konrad said easily, "but for _Mensur_ the use of sharp blades and goggles are more common."

At Javier's blank look, Konrad took it upon himself to explain further.

"In _Mensur_—academic fencing—the aim isn't on dodging or deflecting the blows so much as taking them without flinching. Protecting your entire face would defeat the purpose. And it wasn't an _accident_, really. I mean...the scars were part of the point too. And a lot of people considered them attractive."

Konrad looked aside at him with a smile, though it faded somewhat as he picked up on Javier's—well, to be honest, Javier didn't even know how he felt about the conversation. On the one hand, the subject was so far out of his usual experience that, at the very least, it wasn't likely to retread anything he had ever talked about with Kevin—Javier seriously didn't know how he might handle that. On the other hand, the way Konrad had launched so eagerly and shamelessly into the random tangent also felt very familiar to him, and that familiarity hurt in a formless sort of way Javier would have been hard pressed to describe.

"So...you just stand there and stab each other in the face, then?" Javier managed after a while, latching onto it because, ironically, the ridiculousness of what they were talking about was the easiest part of the situation for him to grasp. "That's... Really dumb."

"Yeah, I guess it is a bit," Konrad admitted, glancing over at Javier with a faint grin. "What? Did you think your generation had the market cornered on extreme sports?"

"Sounds like something you'd see on _Jackass_," Javier muttered, trying desperately to forget that the words "your generation" had even been spoken.

A glance at Konrad revealed the other man had raised an eyebrow, clearly missing the reference.

"Never mind," Javier said quickly, shaking his head.

The conversation threatened to hang on that, but Konrad eventually picked up its earlier thread, slowly regaining his momentum. He spoke animatedly about fencing _Mensur_ while he studied law under his grandfather's dime in Leipzig. He was more subdued as he spoke of his acquaintance with Adam Monroe, and his introduction to the Olympic style when they sparred together at Auschwitz. And as he moved into his experiences with _kendo_ during his friendship with Kaito Nakamura, his tone was decidedly wistful.

While it might have been better for his peace of mind to let the flow of words fade into the background, Javier listened to all of it. In a strange way, it helped him to understand. Like Konrad, Kevin had gone to college to study law on his grandfather's money—like Konrad, Kevin's grandfather had been a lawyer desperate to salvage his daughter's children from her husband's occupation.

Yet, while Konrad's father had been a watchmaker and Kevin's a cop, both men had dreamed of becoming a detective from the time they were children.

It was a startling piece of information. If that degree of similarity could be made apparent during such a short conversation—and more or less by accident—then it was possible that the two personalities were more closely intertwined than Javier had thought. Konrad's abilities were formidable—who even knew how many he had—and his traumas clearly ran deep. Nonetheless, the more he thought about it, the less Javier could believe Konrad could have created an entire person—created _Kevin—_out of whole cloth by _mistake_. Perhaps Konrad had laid the framework with the identity he set up for himself, but that wasn't the same thing.

No, the more he thought about it, the more sure Javier was. Konrad might have set the foundation, but once he had gone—retreated, vanished, whatever you wanted to call it—Kevin had been left to fill in the blanks on his own...

And he had used Konrad's memories to do it.

Not all of them, of course, and the ones they shared had plainly been cleaned up, altered—_transformed_. Regardless, if that were the case, it meant facing the idea that the boundaries between the two hadn't been drawn as clearly or as cleanly as Javier had wanted to believe. It meant that a great deal of what Kevin was had still been built out of who Konrad had been, and that every time Javier thought he saw some of Kevin in his interactions with Konrad, it was because he had really been seeing those parts of Konrad in Kevin.

And Konrad himself was clearly a very different person when he wasn't defending himself from Bennet and accusations of murder. In fact, as Javier sat there listening, he thought that if he let the meaning in Konrad's words fade and just focused on his voice—on the way he spoke and the way he moved while he spoke—if he didn't already know better, he might have had difficulty distinguishing this man from his partner at all.

And that thought brought with it a sick, nagging ache of dread that settled painfully in his stomach.

There was so much that Javier feared about the future he had seen—questions of which he feared finding the answers. But suddenly one question loomed heavily in his mind, pushing any other fear or thought from his mind with the sheer, overwhelming horror of what it represented. Because, now, Javier found himself remembering the man he had met in his first jump into the future. A man untouched by time, a man who could move unseen, a man who fenced with Castle, a man who had teased him with foreign endearments and stolen kisses—a man that Javier had married.

What if that man wasn't really _Kevin_?

* * *

**Translations:**  
_Jawohl _- an emphatic affirmative "yes", and in this case more or less equivalent to "Yes, sir."

_Schmiss_ - literally a "hit", "smite" or "blow", it is also used for dueling scars.


	39. Interlude 18—Brooklyn, New York 1985

_**Konrad & Martin—Brooklyn, New York; 1985**_

Konrad generally tried to avoid Brooklyn, mostly out of habit.

Immediately after Sarah kicked him out it had hurt too much seeing the familiar places he and his family had once visited. In any case, he had promised to stay out of their lives, and as tempting as it was to contemplate running into Sarah or his sons by accident—real, or manufactured—it would have been not only careless or cowardly, but also impossible cruel to all parties involved.

It had taken something truly significant to bring him back.

Once it had become clear that the ability that erased him from others' memories made him unsuitable for work in the field, Konrad had been reassigned to handling the file archives. Charged with keeping records and organizing information for the Company's agents in the field, Konrad always made a point to perform his own initial investigation using the resources available before passing them on to the agents assigned to a case in the field. It had become a point of personal pride that he could still contribute meaningfully by ensuring their agents would always have the best and most accurate information possible.

Beginning in 1982, a pattern had begun to form in a series of cases overseen by the Company: reports of several specials and suspected specials who had been murdered, all with the same, very distinct MO. As the murders continued over the following years they eventually came to the Company's attention, and Konrad had put his effort into reexamining the cases as a whole, searching for new evidence.

It was in his examination of the earliest case in the series—a woman discovered dead in the parking lot of a diner in New Jersey—that Konrad noticed the first, damning detail which brought the real significance of the murders to his attention. That first murder had occurred in broad daylight, but none of the customers questioned had witnessed the crime take place, or even remembered seeing the victim set foot inside. Still, in their initial investigation, the police had been thorough in documenting those at the scene...

And among the names listed had been that of Martin Gray.

Konrad had long since given up any faith in coincidences, and if it was possible one of his sons had been involved then it became essential for him to know for sure. That need had brought him back to New York City—back to Brooklyn and the shop he had run back in the '50s which inquiries had revealed Martin still owned. He had gone, dreading the answers he might find... And, as was frequently the case for Konrad who had come to almost universally expect the worst, he had not been disappointed.

After more than twenty-five years and the damning truths revealed on the night they had parted, Martin's greeting for him had been as friendly as Konrad might have expected—which was to say not at all—and the story he had to tell about his younger brother had been painful to hear.

Something had happened to Samson, something Martin hardly understood, but whatever it was had scared Samson enough that he had begged his brother to take his son, claiming it was for the boy's protection. Martin had agreed, reluctantly. Only minutes later, Samson's need had proved itself when he murdered the mother of his child. Martin never even knew her name. Martin also didn't know where Samson had gone after that. Martin hadn't _wanted_ to know. He had only hoped that Samson would hold true to his word and stay as far away from Martin and his wife—and the boy, Gabriel—as possible.

It had taken a great deal of begging of his own before Konrad was finally given the chance to meet his grandson.

Gabriel Gray must have taken very strongly after his mother, because looking into his face Konrad couldn't see much of Samson at all. He was a quiet child, shy and a little nervous. Martin thought the boy might have been the sole true witness to his mother's murder, though he didn't seem to remember the event as far as they could tell. In fact, according to Martin, Gabriel didn't seem to remember much about his real parents at all. Martin's wife, Virginia, felt it was a blessing—though after she said so Martin had told her to leave them. She had retreated into the kitchen, leaving her husband to the strange guest he had brought into their home.

As he watched his grandson—quietly absorbed in assembling a picture puzzle—it had struck Konrad painfully that the boy would never know who he was.

Konrad would never be a part of Gabriel's life unless Martin somehow forgave him, and the ability that cursed him would make any kind of meaningful reconciliation impossible. Konrad would never truly be able to make amends for the mistakes he had made with his sons.

Konrad left Martin's home shortly after that. When he did, he didn't bother to say goodbye—they wouldn't have remembered it if he had.

Konrad's entire visit would be forgotten by morning, and the package waiting for Martin at his shop the next day would be a surprise. Tucked inside the package was the old Sylar 1917 Field Edition that Konrad knew his son would recognize, and accompanying the watch a letter reaffirming Konrad's promise to stay out of their lives. He only asked a single favor of his son in return. In the letter, Konrad explained the history of that watch, which his father had carried during first World War and which Konrad himself had worn during the second. He had always meant to give it to Samson before time and circumstances had made it impossible. All Konrad wanted was that Martin pass down the watch and the history that went with it to Gabriel when he was older.

Once he had returned to Odessa, Konrad reviewed the cases again.

Samson had been very careful. Only that first murder, with the woman's close relationship to him and Martin's involvement, carried any links to Samson's identity that Konrad could find. Only those details might even begin to point an investigation his way. Konrad knew he had to act on his information. He could give them everything they would need to find Samson and bring him in. He was even in the position to hand pick the team that would do it. He could hand it over to Haram and his partner, or Ivan, or another pair of agents that he trusted— Only, Konrad didn't think there was _anyone_ he trusted enough for that—to hunt down his son and snare him like an animal, to act as Samson' _executioner_ if he posed too great a threat.

No, if anyone was to perform that task it would have to be Konrad himself. Samson deserved that much from him, at least. It was what a good agent would do—what a good _man_ would do.

By Konrad's own estimation, however, he was neither of those things.

It would have been impossible for all of Samson's crimes to simply disappear—sooner or later, someone would notice. A single folder, though, was easily misplaced. Misfiled. Forgotten. And a single file—the _right_ file—could make all the difference in a case.

That night, in the empty solitude of his apartment, Konrad watched that file burn without satisfaction.


	40. Chapter Twenty-Two: Honor Thy Father

**Chapter Twenty-Two: Honor Thy Father **

_Where is home? I've wondered where home is, and I realized, it's not Mars or someplace like that, it's Indianapolis when I was nine years old. I had a brother and a sister, a cat and a dog, and a mother and a father and uncles and aunts. And there's no way I can get there again. _  
—_Kurt Vonnegut_

* * *

Even at his brightest and most determined, Kevin would have been hard pressed to keep up a conversation against the mood Javier was in right now. Konrad clearly had too much on his own mind to even try. The immortal had eventually given up the ghost—as it were—and fallen to playing around with Javier's phone to keep himself distracted and entertained. Which was as bizarre in one sense as it was predictable in another—after all, Konrad had a lot of catching up to do.

Javier wasn't trying to be difficult, of course. The situation was simply too much for him to easily deal with.

Three hours wasn't that long, all things considered, but it was a _damned_ long time to be trapped in a car with his fears and his doubts—and with _Konrad_, just inches away. Three hours sharing space he couldn't escape from with a man who _negated_ his best friend's existence just by being. For his own sanity, Javier had spent most that time vainly trying to not to think about Konrad's presence—or his partner's absence—and _definitely_ not about the thoughts which had snuck up on him hours before.

If it had been unsettling at first to imagine himself in a romantic relationship with Kevin, _this_ was—well, he would have wanted to call it _unthinkable_. Only clearly it wasn't. A betrayal, though, certainly, and one that Javier, in his present moment, couldn't begin to fathom...

Javier had to believe he was wrong. He had to believe it was a mistake on his own part, a misunderstanding—_something_. He had to have tragically misread the details, because doubting Kevin's identity in that time meant doubting his own. That was the only way Javier could think of it. Because if that visitor from his future—the man who slipped him clever notes, the one who had smiled at him in those photographs back in June—if that man had married Konrad and just let Kevin fade out of existence...

If that _were_ the case, then whatever the appearance, there was no way that man was Javier at all.

With the exception of a few brief and quickly abandoned exchanges—many of which had been surreal and absurdly nerve-wracking (_"The President's Hawaiian? Hawaii's not even a real state."_)—and hourly calls from Kate checking in that Javier was still alive, the drive had mostly progressed in silence.

They reached their destination just past four in the morning. The Harbor Watch Shop was located, unsurprisingly, near the Inner Harbor in downtown Baltimore. According to the information Kate had found, Martin Gray lived in the same building in an apartment just above it. Though it was ungodly early, Javier had weighed their options and decided not to wait. He thought that if he tried—if he delayed this any longer than necessary—he would slowly go insane.

That, or Konrad would beat him to it.

The air was freezing as they stepped out of the car. The sweatshirt he had been wearing underneath his jacket barely managed to make it tolerable. Javier refused stubbornly to feel thankful for that—to feel thankful for anything his future self might have done to prepare him for Konrad's escape, not when he could have _stopped_ it.

Javier was brought up short in the midst of his thoughts when Konrad absently held something in front of his face. A pair of gloves, Javier realized belatedly—his own, forgotten in his jacket. For a few slow, stupid seconds he could only stare at them numbly before he accepted them in silence.

As he put them on, Javier took a few moments to observe Konrad discreetly from the corner of his eye. The immortal was staring at the building in front of them with a blank, desolate expression. Javier half thought Konrad might be looking forward to this even less than he was.

"You ready?" Konrad asked distantly as Javier settled himself.

Javier gave a weak snort.

"Are _you_?"

Konrad didn't answer or even look at him, but after a few moments and a slow breath he finally moved forward, and Javier followed. The stairs and hallway leading to the apartment were dark, and close, and forced Konrad and himself into a claustrophobic proximity that threatened to unravel what little calm Javier had left. Once they reached the door it had taken a whole lot of knocking for them to get an answer—seconds which had ticked by far too slowly, somehow managing to leave him feeling both trapped _and_ exposed.

Konrad stood to the side of the door as Javier waited, out of easy sight.

Finally, the door opened. The man Javier saw on the other side of it was in his mid-sixties, thin faced with grey hair and a receding hairline. He peered out at Javier from behind a pair of dark-framed glasses, his eyes narrowed in undisguised suspicion.

Javier's mind labored to process for a moment. He had known, of course—_intellectually_, he had known how old Konrad was, and that Adam was even older than that. He had known how old Martin was, because he had been there and listened as Konrad had given that information to Kate. He had known those things, and thought he understood them. Yet seeing Martin standing in front of him was somehow very different, and made the whole thing feel inescapably real.

The man in front of Javier was close to his father's age, and Konrad had raised him as his _son_.

"Well?" Martin demanded gruffly.

Still mute in his confusion, Javier was saved from having to come up with anything.

"Martin?"

Javier heard Martin's breath catch as Konrad spoke his name, and saw his mouth flatten out into an unpleasant line when Konrad stepped into view. Martin looked him over slowly, unease visible in his face and posture as he took a step back from the door.

"So," Martin finally said. "You _are_ still alive then."

Konrad looked away briefly, taking a slow breath.

"Please... We need to talk."

Martin seemed to debate with himself for a moment. Finally he relented with a weary frown, stepping aside to allow them to enter. Javier followed Konrad inside uncertainly. He was still anxious at the thought of letting the immortal out of his sight, but felt awkward at his intrusion nonetheless. Martin spared him a perturbed glance, looking as if he might ask, though he clearly thought better of it, refocusing his attention on Konrad.

"It's been more than twenty years since I've even heard from you," Martin said, taking his seat in a shabby looking armchair. "What's changed?

"I heard about Sam," Konrad said, voice soft and cautious, as if he might hurt himself if he wasn't careful. "Is it true? Is he...?"

"Lung cancer," Martin confirmed quietly after an empty pause. "Terminal."

"Is there _anything_, that can be done?" Konrad asked desperately. "A transplant? _Something_?"

And Javier could fully believe the man would have cut whatever was needed from his own body where he stood if it would do any good, but Martin shook his head.

"It's spread too far," Martin said. "He's got maybe a month. Probably less."

Javier watched Konrad take that in, his face twisting painfully for just a second before he drew in a shaking breath. A moment passed in which he barely moved, and then he exhaled with a shallow nod.

"Where is he?" Konrad asked.

Martin removed his glasses, rubbing his eyes tiredly before he rose to his feet.

"I was the only living family they had on record," Martin finally said, returning the glasses to his nose with a sigh, "so when it got bad enough I had him moved to a hospice here in the city."

He disappeared briefly into an adjoining room, returning moments later with a small slip of paper. Martin frowned deeply as he looked at it, lifting his eyes to look up at Konrad once again.

"It'll be over soon," Martin said, sounding strangely decisive. "Thank God. I loved him growing up, but this is the last I want to have to do with him. Or his son. Or _you_."

And though his voice sounded very weary, it also sounded certain.

"I never really knew what you were," Martin said suddenly. "Maybe you are one of those specials they talk about on the news, I don't know. But there's something about you, about Sam and that kid of his. Something unnatural. Something sick. And I don't want any part of it anymore."

He held the paper out to Konrad, his expression cold.

"Go," Martin said. "Say your goodbyes to Sam. Consider this ours. However many years _I_ have left, I don't want to see you again."

Konrad's face was pale as he took the paper from him, and his lips parted briefly as if he wanted to speak. Finally, Konrad managed a faint nod, and still silent turned wordlessly for the door. Sparing Martin only a glance, Javier followed.

As they headed back to the car, Konrad stopped once a few feet ahead of him, the paper clutched tightly in his hand. While Javier couldn't see his face, there was so much tension in Konrad's body that he nearly shook from it. Javier watched the moment creep past in silence, the pause charged yet oddly hesitant. After a few moments, however, Konrad seemed to shake himself out of it, and continued down the stairs.

As they drove away, Javier found himself inexplicably relieved when Konrad didn't look back.


	41. Interlude 19—Brooklyn, New York 2001

_**Gabriel—Brooklyn, New York; August, 2001**_

Gabriel must have watched the man browse his shop for nearly five minutes before he said anything.

Normally, he was more forward than that in his business—he quite often had to be—but this customer had seemed oddly familiar to him, somehow. Gabriel loved a good mystery every now and then, and if one had just decided to step into his shop, who was he to turn it away? And it wasn't as if Gabriel had much to occupy his time at the moment. His trade was not particularly fast paced, and he was between commissions, so Gabriel decided to treat himself and wait for the man's approach while he attempted to solve the puzzle that was being presented to him.

The customer was a young man in his early twenties—about Gabriel's own age. He had blue eyes, and light brown hair, and was dressed in dark slacks and a grey button-down whose sleeves were rolled up in deference to the weather. Apart from the strange sense of familiarity, there was nothing at all outstanding about him. Perhaps they had gone to school together? Not that Gabriel had been particularly social in high school—he wasn't particularly social now that he was an _adult_—yet it was possible he had seen the man in passing. Gabriel resolved to look over his old year books later...

As he thought about it, Gabriel was sure he had seen the man in a photograph, somewhere.

"Can I assist you?" Gabriel finally asked the man, catching his attention.

His customer looked up abruptly from the case he had been looking at. He almost seemed a little startled before his expression fell into a strange, eager smile.

"Yeah, um, I hope so," the man said, "I'm..."

He hesitated a moment, pausing a while before he shook his head.

"My grandfather's eightieth birthday is coming up," the man finally said, his grin turning a little embarrassed. "I'm looking for a gift for him. He used to be a watchmaker, so I thought...maybe a quality timepiece might be appropriate for the occasion."

Gabriel smiled.

"Were you thinking of a newer piece or vintage?" he asked.

"Vintage," the man said, decisively. "Something practical he could wear every day. Actually, I'd... I'd really appreciate some recommendations. Um, if you don't mind."

There were more than a few items in the shop that might have suited the customer's needs, and so the transaction had entailed quite a bit of narrowing down. Yet the customer seemed prone to digression, and oddly the discussion of his grandfather's taste meandered just a little. Through several unexpected tangents, Gabriel learned that his customer was apparently a cop, but that he was still respectably knowledgeable of the watchmaking trade. Even Gabriel had been coaxed into turning the topic of their conversation once or twice. That wasn't usual for him. He blamed his earlier curiosity for the lapse—idle chit chat had never seemed like an efficient means of closing a sale. Fortunately, his customer didn't seem to mind. In fact, the man seemed almost eager to listen.

On the whole, it was...unexpectedly pleasant.

At one point, the customer had inquired about the personal project in which he had been engrossed when the man had first arrived.

"That's a Sylar watch, isn't it?" the man had asked, looking over the pieces where they lay disassembled across a piece of black felt on his workbench.

"It is," Gabriel admitted, the recognition having caught him slightly off guard. "I've been working to restore it for the past two years. Though I'm afraid I haven't been having much luck with it. The manufacturer went bankrupt in the mid-thirties, and the parts have proven difficult to find."

As always, the sight of the watch brought with it a wash of conflicting emotions.

When Gabriel's father, Martin, had walked out on his family eight years ago he had left almost everything behind. Clothing, books, furniture. He had even left the shop in his son's possession—along with all of the bills and half-finished commissions that went with it. Gabriel had only been sixteen. For the first few years afterward, Virginia had lived in denial, certain that her husband would eventually see sense and finally return. After three years, her long overdue acceptance had left her fallen into a depression. Gabriel had been supporting the both of them ever since Martin's departure, but after her breakdown, Virginia had become painfully dependent on him.

Thankfully, it was a state from which she was finally, tentatively beginning to emerge

Two years ago, she had finally asked him to see about removing most of Martin's things from her home. His father's clothes and the books Gabriel had chosen not to keep had been donated to their church, but the more personal items he had instead hauled away to his own apartment for safe keeping.

Gabriel had been searching through the closet when he found the box. Beat up and dusty beneath a stack of other boxes, it hadn't seemed at all remarkable, but upon a closer look at its contents Gabriel had been stunned to realize exactly what he had found.

Though the box had mostly contained old books, there had also been a couple of photo albums, dusty from neglect. Gabriel could remember a few occasions during his childhood in which Martin had spoken of his family. Gabriel knew about his grandmother, Sarah, who had died of cancer long before Gabriel had been born, and of his great-grandfather, from whom Martin had inherited the shop. Yet Martin had never spoken of his own father, even on the few and ultimately fruitless occasions Gabriel had thought to ask, and so much of his family's history—such as the story of how Watson's Watches had finally become Gray & Sons—had always been a mystery.

Unfortunately, Virginia had been unable to identify most of the faces in those photographs, and so it remained a mystery still.

But the real treasure had been hidden inside a much smaller box, buried deep beneath the albums and stack of old magazines. In that box, Gabriel had found the Sylar watch, and with it a letter that contained perhaps the only solid link to that now forgotten past...

Even if it left him with more questions than it did answers.

The letter had been addressed to Gabriel's father, written by _Martin's_ father long ago. Gabriel must still have been a child then, because the letter had mostly been about _him_. There had been mention of some promise made to his grandmother, years ago, to stay out of Martin's life, though the letter never mentioned why—a pledge which his grandfather had sworn he still would honor. And he had expressed his regrets that his grandson would never know him, asking only that the watch be given to Gabriel when he was older.

He had also included an account of the watch's history, one that had left Gabriel feeling awed, and a little humbled knowing he had been meant to have it. The watch had come to him after surviving two world wars, and after a bombing during the second it had been the only family keepsake his grandfather had had left.

Gabriel had also come away from the letter very angry with his father for its neglect—for letting it run down, forgotten, it's oil left to clot and harden in the delicate mechanisms while it lay hidden away like a shameful secret to collect dust all these years. In any other family ignorance might have made it forgivable, but from Martin the disrespect could only have been intentional.

More than anything, though, Gabriel had been left saddened learning about the man, and knowing in the same moment that they would never meet. Gabriel would never get the chance to learn more from him about his family or his life—or to ask about Sam, who had been meant to inherit the watch before Gabriel had come along. He would never know his grandfather's name or what he had looked like, nor even which of the strangers in the photographs he might have been. But he did have the watch—he still held onto that much of his family's legacy—and Gabriel would see it restored, no matter how many years it might take.

Gabriel felt he owed his grandfather that much at least.

And Gabriel didn't know what had ever possessed him to share that story with his customer, but, strangely, in spite of the somewhat shaken expression on the man's face, he couldn't quite bring himself to regret it.

Their conversation stayed more focused on business after that. Though the solemn atmosphere was dispelled as Gabriel suggested a modest piece by A. Lange & Söhne, his customer's expression brightening into a sudden grin. For all his talkative nature, for a moment the man seemed almost speechless.

"My— His father's apprenticeship was with Lange in Glashütte," the customer said of his grandfather, haltingly. "It's—"

He looked over the piece with a warm smile.

"It's perfect," the man finally said, and there was something disarmingly vulnerable in his eyes when he looked at Gabriel again.

As they brought the transaction to a close, the customer made one final request.

"Could you—" He paused, hesitating a moment and looking a little embarrassed. "Do you think you could write the card for me? My handwriting is...well, it's pretty terrible."

Glancing down at the writing on the check the man had given him—the name all but illegible—Gabriel could only agree.

"What would you like it to say?" Gabriel asked.

His customer was quiet for a moment, seeming to consider very carefully.

"It should read, '_Happy 80th Birthday. Let's try to make up for lost time_,'" the customer said. His voice was thick, and sounded only a hair's breadth away from breaking. He paused to wet his lips before he finished. "And sign it, '_Your loving grandson, Gabriel_.'"

And Gabriel felt a strange, sharp moment of unease—both at the coincidence, and at the mans show of emotion—but he managed to hide it, finishing the card as asked.

Though it had been a satisfying sale, in the days that followed something about it nagged at him, and Gabriel found himself thinking back on it frequently, as if some part of his mind refused to let it go. Yet, each time he did, his recollection seemed somewhat dimmed, and by the end of the week many of the details had fallen away. After a while he couldn't quite remember why it had seemed strange or at all important.

By the second week of September, Gabriel had forgotten about it completely.


	42. Chapter Twenty-Three: Parabola

**Chapter Twenty-Three: Parabola**

_And if the pain was gone  
And you were free to run away  
And get out  
Would you get out of there  
Or do you really care  
It's not safe or easy  
And maybe when you're gone  
You just won't belong at all _  
—_Black Sabbath, "Sins of the Father"_

* * *

Javier finally gave in and decided that sanity was overrated. He and Konrad both needed a chance to recover after their encounter with Martin. And, after all the not-sleep he had managed to get over the two nights his partner had already been locked away behind Konrad's personality, Javier also needed caffeine like _breathing_. After Kate's next check-in Javier left his phone on the charger in the car and managed to find a small diner that not only opened before five, but was also blessedly empty.

They took a booth by the front window, and Konrad turned to stare out at the still-dark street outside with a distant, occupied expression.

A strange mood had fallen over the immortal after they had left the Inner Harbor, leaving him listless and distracted. Somehow, Javier found this growing despondency more disturbing than anything else that Konrad had said or done. Though he failed to understand that, at first, after a moment's examination Javier finally managed to figure out why.

Largely, the most painful elements of Javier's interactions with Konrad had been the things that reminded him of his partner. Gestures, tones, and habits that were painful in their familiarity—things that still _felt_ like Kevin, even though in his mind Javier knew it wasn't him. By contrast this dull, vacant distress was something completely alien to Javier's experience. And vacant really was the only word for it. As troubling as it had been seeing his partner's body inhabited by someone else, seeing Konrad's presence within that body _dimmed _almost to the point of absence was far worse.

The image that thought conjured in his mind—of his partner as an empty vessel, drained of animation and spirit—made Javier's skin crawl, but short of shaking the man he was at a loss for what to do about it.

Konrad seemed almost completely oblivious to what was going on around him. He made no reaction to the approach of the waitress, and no comment as Javier ordered. Though he did finally—_thankfully_—begin to snap out of it once their cups were filled, and by the time the food was pushed in front of them, Konrad was aware enough to look up from his plate with a soft, startled surprise. Javier pretended not to notice, focusing on his eggs and his coffee. Konrad opened his mouth as if to say something, but he must have seen the warning in Javier's face the one time their eyes met, because he apparently thought better of it.

And Javier also pretended not to see Konrad's very faint smile as the immortal tucked into his waffles in silence.

Approaching the hospital, Konrad's demeanor was very different from what Javier had seen before visiting Martin. He was still visibly hesitant, his apprehension almost palpable, however it felt far less anxious than it did resigned. In an odd way, it brought to mind the barely hidden dread Javier had last seen on his partner's face when he had left Kevin sitting alone in that interrogation room. It was the expression of a man being forced to confront something that threatened to crush his very soul—

A man with no hope of escape from what lay ahead of him, yet no choice but to move forward to meet it.

As tense as Konrad already was, once they passed through the doors his posture became even more stiff and his energy more unsettled. He was pale-faced, and seemed a bit shaky. Those details itched for a moment with elusive familiarity, and Javier felt a sharp twist in his gut as he realized why.

Kevin had always hated hospitals...

Javier swallowed thickly as his mind returned once again to the accounts of Konrad's past. If anything was goddamned sure, Javier knew he was never going to tease his partner about those phobias again.

The nurse at the front desk greeted them with a warm smile as they came in...though that expression cooled slightly once she got a closer look. Javier supposed he should have seen that coming. Between bruises, bullets, exhaustion and general distress, neither he nor Konrad were looking their friendliest at this point.

"Can I help you?" she asked them, a wary uncertainty audible in her voice.

"My name is Gabriel Gray," Konrad told her, the lie coming easily despite the man's unease. "I'm here to visit my uncle, Samson."

The name impacted Javier's awareness, arousing a sharp jolt of shock he very nearly couldn't keep hidden. Though he tried to remind himself of the possibly of coincidence, Javier had a very hard time making himself truly believe it.

Of all the names Konrad might have chosen...

Javier found himself thinking back to the notes that he had made about his first trip to the future back in June. The Gabriel of which Kevin had spoken then had clearly held some kind of importance, not just to his partner and to Agent DiNozzo, but to Noah Bennet as well. From what he had come to see of Bennet during _this _case, Javier felt the man was likely many things—shifty, calculating and ruthless being chief among them—yet as much as Javier disliked the man, Bennet had struck him as immanently rational.

And, if what Javier had learned about the Company revealed anything, almost _preternaturally _open-minded.

The notion of anything—any _person_—rendering Noah Bennet "unreasonable" as Kevin and DiNozzo had claimed felt sufficiently out of character that it could absolutely not be taken lightly. Yet Javier had seen Bennet's reaction to the man Peter had brought with him to the station. He found it almost impossible to believe that the "Gabriel" his partner had mentioned in Washington could possibly have been anyone else.

While Javier had never gotten the chance to learn the specifics, Gabriel had clearly struck up some kind of rapport with Kevin at the station. It was entirely possible that had been enough to cement whatever connection the two would have to each other in the future. Nothing in Konrad's file had hinted toward a connection between the two, and it was certainly possible the choice of name was unrelated.

Then again, nothing in Konrad's file had hinted at a family, either.

It was useless to speculate idly, Javier finally decided. Any possible connection to the future needed to be looked at, he had already decided that the night Bennet's daughter had thrown everything into the spotlight. But, at the moment, Javier didn't have the time, energy or resources to pursue the possible lead. He was already exhausted, overtaxed emotionally, and dangerously close to a crash. He needed to stay focused.

Getting Kevin back was the priority. Anything else would have to wait.

As if to prove his concerns about splitting his attention, Javier abruptly realized that the nurse was looking at him expectantly. He realized stupidly that she was probably wondering why he was there. Caught off guard, Javier tried to pull together something to say which fit Konrad's story, but he came up unfortunately blank—

Javier would have to blame his daze for his lack of reaction when Konrad slung one arm possessively around his waist.

"This is my _partner_, Javier," Konrad told her, inflecting the word significantly with a tone that made Javier's stomach twist.

It took every ounce of composure Javier had left in him not to pull himself out of Konrad's grasp. The nurse looked them over uncertainly, biting her lip for a moment before turning to lead the way.

Though Javier knew that Martin was the older brother, looking at Samson, he never would have guessed it. The man lying in the bed seemed impossibly frail to Javier. His skin was ashen, his cheeks hollow, grey strands washing out his hair and beard until both were unidentifiably colorless. Even his eyes, a muddy hazel, seemed oddly leeched of color. Looking at him, Javier found he couldn't make out much of a resemblance between the dying man and his partner. It hurt him to imagine that there might have been at one time.

With his body looking so wasted and used, it took Javier several moments to even realize that Samson was awake.

"Dad?" Samson's voice was harsh and dry, barely a whisper as he stirred in recognition. "Martin said he wouldn't look for you. We weren't even sure you were still alive..."

"I'm sorry," the nurse said to them in a low aside. "The medicine he's on can make him confused."

"No, it's okay," Konrad told her quietly, his voice tight. "Could— Could we have a moment alone?"

After a quiet moment of debate with himself Javier swallowed his misgivings and retreated to the hallway without argument. He knew it was a bad idea, but standing there he felt too much like he was intruding. Still, Javier wasn't about to let Konrad out of his sight again—neither his heart nor his sanity could handle another disappearing act—so he stood against the far wall, watching them through the open doorway. Though he could see the other men easily it left the two of them room enough to talk in private. The nurse followed, but when Javier didn't move any farther, she didn't either. She cast an askance look upon his face. Belatedly, he was reminded once more of the bruises.

"I ran into the door," Javier told her, flatly.

Either she missed his irony, or she failed to appreciate the joke. She seemed decidedly uncomfortable when she left.

**(—**  
**=)**

"Sam..."

Konrad's throat felt painfully tight, and though Detective Esposito and the nurse had backed off, for a moment the name was all that he could manage. What could he say after fifty years—after Samson had lived a whole _life_ without him?

The silence hung between them, heavy and expectant, yet so complete and fragile that, when he finally spoke, Samson's rough, trembling voice shattered it completely.

"It wouldn't save me, would it?" Samson asked him, eyes roaming over Konrad's features with a weary and resigned expression. "If I could..._take_ what you have. It wouldn't fix what's wrong with me."

Konrad shook his head. The Company had done more than its share of research on Konrad's acquired abilities during his time with them. Though Adam's ability had shielded him from aging and sickness all these years, with a cancer like Samson's that had already deeply taken root, the accelerated growth of cells could only make the condition monstrously worse.

"No," Konrad told him, the word barely making it past his lips. "I'm sorry. I wish—"

Konrad had wished a lot of things in his life. So many things over the years that he had often wished, more than anything else, that he could _stop_. Sometimes he feared that if he held onto each one of his regrets that, one day, they would be all he had left. But wishing was a very human thing to do...

Whatever else he was, Konrad had never stopped being _that_.

"I wish there were something I could do," he said, hopelessly. "I wish I hadn't let your mother push me out of your life. If I'd made the effort, if I'd just _been_ there, maybe I could have helped you. Maybe I could have _stopped_ you from—"

Konrad fell silent again. He couldn't imagine any setting where it would have been appropriate to drag Samson's crimes in front of him—Konrad hadn't even managed it when they had been fresh in his mind. To speak of them here struck him as _cruel_. Samson was already suffering—he was _dying._ And Konrad wasn't even sure why that should have changed anything, but that didn't change the fact that apparently it _did_.

"You know, then," Samson said, with a faint, pained note of acceptance. "You know about what I've done."

Konrad nodded weakly.

"I'm sorry," Konrad said again, quietly. "God, Sam, I am _so_ sorry."

Samson shook his head.

"They aren't your crimes to regret," Samson told him. He let out a desiccated noise, something between a laugh and a sigh. "Though I guess you have your own share."

Konrad couldn't hold back a rueful smile.

"More than even my lifetime should have had time for," Konrad admitted with painful honesty. "Some of them much worse. And if I had been in your life, Sam, or if I'd stopped you after, once I knew..."

Konrad stopped, taking a breath to loosen the tension that had built up in his chest.

"Some of that blood _is_ on my hands," he said finally, shaking his head.

"I can't say I haven't made the same mistakes," Samson confessed with a wounded smile. "Though you probably know about that, too."

"Your son," Konrad said. "Gabriel."

It wasn't a question, but Samson nodded in confirmation nonetheless.

"I came to see him once, when he was a kid. Martin wouldn't remember it..." Konrad trailed off, shaking his head with a sigh. "Then once more when he was grown. I... I'd thought about trying to build a place for myself as part of his life—maybe as a friend, or a neighbor. Trying to do right for him the way I failed to with you. But...it never got to happen. And now I've lost track of him..."

"He came to visit me last year," Samson said, eyes distant, his lips pulled into a wry expression that could hardly be called a smile. "He came wanting to kill me for what I did to him and to his mother. And I tried to kill _him._"

He huffed a breathless laugh, then, eyes turning to meet Konrad's with a weary, bitter tone of regret.

"Like father like son..." Samson said, shaking his head almost disbelievingly. The words made Konrad ache to his very core. "We hunted a lot of the same trails it turns out, and he had acquired an ability like yours... But you say it wouldn't have saved my life if I had taken it... Which means that I threw away the only chance I was ever going to have at being forgiven. That I threw it away for nothing."

Samson shut his eyes, pausing to catch his breath. He opened them moments later, gesturing Konrad closer and taking his hand.

"Forgiving you might be the only thing it's still in my power to do," Samson told him, squeezing Konrad's hand with what little strength he had. "I would have to be a bigger fool than I am to throw a chance at that away as well."

Konrad's chest was tight, robbing him of his breath and preventing any sort of response, so instead he returned his son's grip in silence. Looking at that hand, weak and thin and pale, Konrad couldn't help but reflect painfully on the first day he had held it. Tiny then, pink and warm, and so strong that it had amazed him, Konrad had been filled with so much hope for his son's life...

A faint sound drew his attention back to the present, and Konrad looked up to see Samson looking at him sharply, almost as if he were only now really seeing him.

"And maybe," Samson said, slowly, and carefully, his voice was as dry and as fragile as a leaf, "there might be one last thing you can do for _me_..."

And though his heart dropped with dread anticipation of the request, Konrad knew that whatever it was he would do it—

If Samson asked him to commit _murder_ right now, Konrad knew wouldn't be able to say no.


	43. Chapter Twenty-Four: An Old Man

**Chapter Twenty-Four: An Old Man Sitting Next To Me**

_He says, "Son can you play me a memory?_  
_I'm not really sure how it goes._  
_But it's sad and it's sweet, and I knew it complete_  
_When I wore a younger man's clothes."_  
—_Billy Joel, "Piano Man"_

* * *

It was a different nurse that came to check up on them, perhaps an hour later—as best Javier could tell, anyway, since he wasn't quite sure how much time had actually passed. She had come up beside him, waiting patiently, almost cautiously, for him to notice her presence without apparent offense at how long it took—which Javier had appreciated very much, for apart from the attention focused on his watch of the door, he was all but asleep on his feet. He had done his best to listen to her words with an apologetic, punchy sort attention, and made a promise to pass them on which she had accepted with visible sympathy.

Though it was hardly his greatest surprise of the day—Javier felt like he was being forced to readjust the scale near-constantly—it threw Javier just a little how reluctant he was to interrupt. While, for the most part, he was eager almost to the point of madness to see this whole thing finally over with, there a nagging part of him that seemed almost to want to delay. It hardly seemed to make any sense—all Javier had to do was get Konrad to the station and, _finally_, he would have his partner back. Yet, even as that goal seemed almost within his reach, Javier found it impossible to forget everything Konrad stood to lose.

Though Javier was dying to see Kevin again, it just wasn't in him to begrudge Konrad the last few moments he would ever have with his son.

"I'm sorry," Javier said, once he had delivered the nurse's request that they leave and allow Samson his rest.

"No," Konrad said softly, letting out a breath as he slowly shook his head. "No, I understand."

"Do you have it?" Samson asked Konrad then.

Though his voice was weak, it drew both of their attention completely. And it was in in Javier's mind briefly to ask what he was talking about, but the pain that crossed Konrad's face at the words stopped him. Konrad nodded wordlessly, taking Samson's hand in his.

"_Bis Abfallen_," Samson said as he returned his father's grip, lips parting in a shaky smile.

"_Bis Abfallen_," Konrad returned, voice tight as he mirrored the smile sadly, eyes red with the beginning of tears.

He reached out, brushing the hair back from Samson's face. And though his eyes remained on his son, Konrad turned his head just slightly so that when he spoke again Javier knew the words were meant for him.

"Cover your ears," Konrad said.

And Javier thought that maybe Konrad wanted just a few more parting words between them, and so, grudgingly, he did what he was told. However it became obvious very quickly that this wasn't exactly the case. Javier wasn't entirely sure what did happen, but some kind of strange vibration filled the room, and though he couldn't hear it—whatever it was—Javier thought he could feel it buzzing at the back of his teeth. Finally Samson's eyes lidded heavily, fluttering closed, and the feeling died down slowly, fading until it was gone.

Konrad leaned down to kiss Samson's forehead and then stood, nodding briefly to Javier. And Javier's heart was racing, his gut tight with apprehension, but finally, cautiously, he lowered his hands.

"Is he—"

And he honestly wasn't sure if he could have finished asking, not with what the question implied. Thankfully, Javier wasn't required to as Konrad slowly shook his head.

"Asleep," Konrad said softly, offering Javier a weak, sympathetic smile. "But he should sleep longer and sounder this way than with anything they could give him."

Konrad took a shaking breath as he looked over his son one last time.

"As weak as he is, though," Konrad added painfully, "it's possible he might not wake up."

Javier decided not to ask. He was sure that he didn't want to know.

Without a single word of acknowledgment or direction from either one of them they headed back to the car. Javier thought they were both eager to put this day behind them. The silence which filled the car as they began the drive back to New York was a cold, weighted thing. It hung so heavily in the air that it almost felt difficult to breathe. Watching him from the corner of his eye, Javier could see that distressing stillness begin to creep in on Konrad's energy once again, the farewell clearly a heavy presence on the other man's mind.

"What did he mean, 'like father like son'?" Javier found himself asking suddenly.

As conversation went, it probably wasn't the most sensitive topic he could have chosen, but Javier was desperate to avoid seeing Konrad withdraw into himself yet again. And though he had tried not to listen in on the conversation with Samson—and had, indeed, succeeded for the most part—those words had been familiar enough for Javier to catch easily, even at a distance. While he didn't want to pry, Javier still had certain responsibilities to his partner. There were some things he _needed _to know, and all those instincts that Javier was only just learning how to listen to were crying out at him that this was one of them.

"I'm...not entirely sure," Konrad said, the evasion sounding almost halfhearted as he finally made an effort to pull back from his thoughts.

"Why do I not believe that?" Javier asked skeptically.

"Because your career has left you jaded and distrusting of people?" Konrad responded, quickly.

And almost—_almost_—Javier thought he could feel some genuine life in the words, so he decided not to let them slide. He spared his attention from the road just long enough to level a glance at the other man that was almost a glare. He didn't know which one of them was more surprised when, after what Javier thought was a short debate with himself, Konrad gave in.

"I'm assuming you know about the ability that erases me from people's memories?" Konrad asked.

Accepting Javier's nod as confirmation, he continued.

"Then it'll make sense that afterward I managed records for the Company instead of doing field work. Back in the early Eighties, a string of murders crossed my desk. They came from all over the country, but the victims were all specials, and they were all murdered in the same strange way—and I mean _strange_, even by the standards of the job—so it became sort of a pet project of mine to try and put the pieces together."

Konrad trailed off, briefly lapsing into a short silence, clearly disturbed at the memory.

"It wasn't until I started looking over the cases more closely that I came across one important detail," Konrad said slowly. "A name. A name that wouldn't have meant anything to anyone but me... The first victim was a woman, slain outside a diner in New Jersey...and Martin and his wife Virginia were both witnesses at the scene."

Konrad paused, wetting his lips as he shook his head once again.

"As we'd say in the Company," Konrad said, letting out a weak laugh, "there are no coincidences. I visited Martin, and I asked him about what had happened. He didn't know the whole story, just that Samson had called, asking Martin to meet him there. Martin said he had sounded desperate—afraid. Something had Samson so scared that he had _begged _Martin to take his son from him, saying it was for the boy's safety. And Martin never knew exactly what happened after Samson left, but...he thought maybe Gabriel's mother might have objected to turning him over."

Javier didn't need to ask. He knew that Konrad was referring to the victim.

"Some abilities are...broken, I guess," Konrad said, slowly, meeting Javier's eye briefly for the first time since beginning the story. "I mean, any ability can become damaged, like mine has, but some are just inherently that way. They push back at a person's control, until in a way the ability uses the person wielding it as much as the person uses it. And sometimes, they take hold of a person completely... "

Konrad fell silent for a moment. He seemed hesitant to continue. Yet, after what Javier thought was a short debate with himself, Konrad eventually gave in.

"From what I've managed to piece together, I think Samson had an ability, and that it was similar to mine in some ways," Konrad said. "Not the same, though. I think he was able to copy abilities from other specials...but he had to kill in order to do it. And I think he felt himself losing control of that, which is why he chose to leave his son behind."

With this new information in hand, Konrad's earlier comments about Samson—that he would be dead if the Company had found him—now made a very painful and disturbing kind of sense. Yet, even though Konrad hadn't spoken with either of his sons in _decades_, with Kate's help he had still found them easily enough. And Konrad had very clearly known about his son's crimes for a very long time. If the Company had failed in finding their murderer, it could only mean that Konrad had never given them the information they would have needed to find him—

That Konrad had knowingly allowed a _killer_ to run free.

Javier felt his stomach clench at the thought. He thought bitterly of the relief he had felt when Konrad had been found blameless in Zimmerman's murder. During his tense wait at the station, Javier had feared more than anything that it might prove otherwise. As many times as he tried to imagine laying that burden at his partner's feet, Javier hadn't been sure that he could have done it. The thought of being forced to tell Kevin that he was a murderer... Javier knew that a revelation like that would have broken his partner completely.

Now, though... Now _this_.

Javier didn't know how he was supposed to handle this. In allowing Samson to go free Konrad had made himself an accessory to every one of his son's crimes. In the eyes of many, that made him just as guilty as if he had taken those lives himself...and if Javier knew his partner at all, he couldn't imagine _Kevin_ being able to see it any other way.

"I met Sam's kid only twice," Konrad said suddenly—and a bit absently—after a long stretch of silence, drawing Javier's attention away from his thoughts. "The first time was when I first talked to Martin. He was...I don't know, maybe seven or eight? He probably wouldn't have remembered me, even if it were possible..."

"The second time was after I left the Company," Konrad said, his faint smile turned a bit wry, almost bashful. "It was sort of a birthday present to myself. I swore to Sarah that I'd leave our sons alone, but Gabriel hadn't been born yet when I did, so I justified to myself that I wasn't really breaking my promise by visiting him again, just once. Afterward, I thought about trying to get closer to him, try and become a part of his life—maybe as a neighbor, at first, later as a friend. But that was in late 2001, so...I guess you know I never really got the chance to make good on those plans."

"Samson made it sound as if his son might have inherited his same ability," Konrad said, with a sigh. "It's not common, but it happens. Though, for his sake, I hope I'm wrong..."

And Javier found himself thinking of another Gabriel—of his strange, predatory energy and Bennet's resolute wariness—and wondering if the boy Konrad remembered had grown into the man he and Kevin had met at the station. Konrad's own words echoed Javier's earlier instincts on the subject—

There were no coincidences.

A few more moments passed in silence, and Javier took the opportunity to collect himself just a bit. He thought Konrad might have done the same. Though the other man was still alarmingly quiet, Javier thought he detected more...ease in it. Though Javier silently doubted that the ghosts of Konrad's past could ever fully be at peace, for now they seemed to have given up haunting him—for a short while at least. Javier found that oddly encouraging.

"And the words you said to him before we left?" Javier asked, for once honestly curious. "_Bis_..."

As he stumbled over repeating them, Javier wondered briefly why he was asking. Yet, despite the sadness of Konrad's smile and the tears in his eyes, as the words had been exchanged Javier had thought he saw something warm in the expression. With so much of Konrad's pain laid already laid bare before him, Javier thought he wouldn't mind seeing that again.

And as some small measure of that warmth returned to the smile on Konrad's face, Javier found it difficult to regret the question.

"_Bis__ Abfallen_," Konrad repeated softly. Fondly.

For a moment, Konrad said nothing else, watching quietly out the window. Yet, rather than empty, his silence simply felt thoughtful.

"I speak more than twenty languages," Konrad said suddenly.

He didn't say it as though he were bragging but conversationally, as if it were a detail he thought Javier should know. For a moment, Javier almost assumed it was the start of another tangent—those random digressions that, to his mind, were among the more jarring traits Konrad shared with his partner—yet, from the glance Konrad sent his way to gauge his attention, he quickly realized that it wasn't.

"Even after Auschwitz, after meeting Adam and learning about what I was, it was a long time before I realized that was a part of it," Konrad said, frowning slightly. "Adam's ability, and Ruth's, the others that followed... They always felt strange to me, foreign—_other_. But I'd always been good with languages, for as long as I could remember. My mother was too, so I'd always just assumed it was natural. It wasn't until Zimmerman joined the Company and began picking apart how my ability worked that I realized that my mother's talent for language was probably the first ability I ever copied."

Konrad paused, letting his head fall back against the headrest with a distant look to his eyes and a soft smile.

"I've never managed to connect with anyone the way I did with my mother," Konrad said, "and I don't think I ever will, because sometimes one language—or two, or even three or four—just isn't enough, not to tell someone exactly what you mean. You'll never fully understand what's going on in a person's head if they don't have the right vocabulary to express it—_le mot juste_, the _perfect_ word—and no one language has them all."

"My friendship with Adam probably came the closest," Konrad confessed. "His long life had given him a decent grasp of several languages, but it still wasn't quite the same. My mother and I could shift between more than a half-dozen languages in the course of a single conversation. We'd discuss music _auf Deutsch_ and _in italiano_, talk about art or food _en __français_, and often we'd use English to discuss language itself..."

"Dozens of languages," Konrad repeated, still smiling softly, "and my mother liked to use them all in her endearments toward my father. '_Amant_', '_caro_', '_erastís_'...and sometimes '_bobo_', which she always meant affectionately, so he never knew it was Spanish for 'fool'. And my father only ever had one language at his disposal, but he made good use of it... He was a watchmaker, but he really could have been a poet—even if a lot of what he said was over the top, and more than a little ridiculous."

Javier was tempted to interrupt, but Konrad seemed to realize on his own that he had begun to drift away from the topic in his reminiscence. He offered Javier a faintly apologetic smile, one which swiftly turned subdued, fading quickly.

"When I began my life with Sarah and the boys, I couldn't take any of that with me," Konrad said, sadly. "I couldn't even sing them the lullabies I'd grown up with as a boy. The father they knew—Dorian Gray—was a British veteran. It wouldn't have made any sense..."

"And yes," Konrad said suddenly, interrupting himself uncomfortably, "I know the name was terrible. Adam came up with it on short notice, mostly as a joke. By the time I got around to asking him why it was so funny, it was too late to change it, not without starting over again. And I guess I thought it kind of fit. What I was doing—lying to my family—at the time I thought it was the right thing. In real life, that's not always as simple as black and white. Sometimes we're forced to compromise and accept actions that are morally kind of grey..."

Pain crossed Konrad's face then that Javier didn't want to think about too closely—he already knew far more about Konrad's life of compromises than he ever could have wanted.

"But I could get away with passing on a few phrases, claiming I'd picked them up during the war," Konrad said, finally seeming to return to the original question, "and there was one my father loved to say to my mother and my sisters and I that always made me smile. So I taught it to my sons, and even Sarah thought it was sweet, but it was kind of a mouthful, so eventually we shortened it to '_bis Abfallen_'. That means 'until the fall', more or less. Which is nice enough, but what my father actually used to say was '_Ich liebe dich bis die Zahnräder der Uhr Herrgotts abfallen_.'"

Konrad smiled at the memory, and it was probably one of the most sincere that Javier had ever seen from the man. And that smile, and the warmth that went with it were still there when Konrad turned to look at him, translating the rest:

"'I'll love you until the wheels fall off the Lord's watch.'"

And Javier blamed it on lack of sleep, on stress, and on the overwhelming surreality of the fucked-up nature of his situation that he didn't exactly remember pulling the car off the road and stopping them safely—in fact, it was entirely possible that Konrad had done it for him. For a moment, all he could really think about was the ringing in his ears, the pressure in his chest, and his own heartbeat pounding painfully in his head. Javier closed his eyes, resting his head against his arm on the steering wheel and tried to get a grip on himself.

"Detective Esposito?"

From the concern he heard in Konrad's voice, Javier knew without looking up the exact expression that would greet him once he did. In an impressively inappropriate moment of humor Javier let out a faint laugh, wondering if his partner's mother-henning ways were inborn, or if they had grown from the pain of an immortal who had lost too much already...

And he let out another laugh once he did look up, as his intuition was proven right.

The laughter inspired an unpleasantly familiar twist in the worried lines of Konrad's brow. He seemed poised to ask what the matter was, though hesitant to ask it. Javier shook his head, saving him the trouble, and for a while both of them were silent. Javier chose to spend that time quietly pulling himself together.

"You really are him, aren't you?" Javier found himself saying, once words even became possible. Because it was only now that it was _really_ starting to process through his mind. "I mean, you're not, but... I can't look at you without still seeing him—not just his face, _him_. All the things I like about him, and the ones I can't stand—"

And Javier had been doing his best trying to keep Konrad and Kevin defined separately in his head, thinking of them as different people entirely. Because it was so much easier for Konrad to be the enemy so long as Javier remembered that, as long as he existed, Kevin was gone. Yet Javier's mind had been betraying him by inches, and it had begun with the acknowledgment that Konrad was a very different man when he wasn't under attack—he simply hadn't let himself think about who that man really was. But Javier could see it now, and it was one of those things which, once seen, could not be forgotten. In facial expression and body language, voice and personality Konrad and Kevin were painfully similar, and they _weren't_ the same man, not completely...

But they weren't entirely separate either.

Because what Javier was starting to see was what Claire Bennet had meant—would mean—with her father's words about the similarity of their situations. Javier mistrusted his future self because he wasn't that man yet, and knew almost nothing about his life or the choices he had made. Yet, by now, Javier knew a very great deal about Konrad's life, and Konrad's choices, and he thought he knew _just_ enough that he could imagine it—imagine who Kevin would be if his life ever came to hold the depth of regret and pain that Konrad had seen. But whatever innocence Konrad might still be said to have, Kevin had clung onto stubbornly. And if Javier really did have any influence over the future, then so help him, he was going to do everything in his power to make sure it stayed that way...

Because Konrad _was_ Kevin, in every way but the one that really mattered.

"And I don't know what that means," Javier finished, numbly.

"I think I do," Konrad said quietly.

And though he had turned away, his expression seemed to reflect in equal measure the confusion that Javier felt.

"I know that I don't know you," Konrad said, not meeting Javier's eyes, "but sometimes I feel like I do. When you live the way I have—for as _long_ as I have—it becomes easier to keep secrets than it is to reveal them. Trust isn't something that comes easy for me, it hasn't been for a very long time... But I do trust you. Without knowing you, I've trusted you from the moment we first met..."

Pausing, Konrad sat back to look out the front window. He let out a faint, baffled laugh, shaking his head.

"Except it wasn't the first time, was it?" he said, the words almost a whisper.

When he looked back at Javier, his expression was thoughtful, but there was an awkward hesitance to it. Javier raised his eyebrows questioningly, long past being surprised when Konrad read it with ease.

"Look, Adam hinted that we...that you and Ryan..." Konrad started, paused, his brows creasing with an embarrassed wince. "He, uh, thought we were sleeping together?"

He didn't say it as though he were surprised by the idea, rather worried that Javier might be offended. And Javier's mind froze, balanced for a stuttering moment on the edge of panic before he remembered how unlikely it was that Konrad was aware of his earlier fears. After all, though the immortal might have any number of unknown abilities at his disposal, Javier was confident enough of the man's character to know that, were that the case, Konrad would have spared them both he painful embarrassment of even asking. Yet even once the panic cooled, it still took Javier a few minutes to even draw breath, let alone answer.

"I, uh, no," Javier managed, feeling his face heat up. "We— No. We're friends. Partners. And anyway, he's engaged."

Though it was only as the words left his lips that Javier realized how incriminating that last excuse really sounded. He thought Konrad probably caught it as well, because he favored Javier with a sympathetic wince.

"_Schade._"

Between the disappointment he heard in Konrad's voice and the faint, almost shy smile that followed, Javier didn't even need a translation. Though his mouth felt suddenly dry, he thought that understanding should have made him feel far more uncomfortable than it did.

"Well, then what's _she_ like?" Konrad asked, cautiously.

And Javier wasn't sure which of them he was asking for, whether it was simply honest curiosity or if Konrad were trying to keep Javier distracted before he could continue losing whatever was left of his mind. Thinking about it, Javier thought it was probably a combination of both, though as far as the second motivation were concerned, the subject left a lot to be desired. Because the _last_ thing he wanted to do was make this nightmare any more surreal by talking about Jenny—

It wasn't a topic he enjoyed, even on the best of days.

He and Kevin had been friends for almost as long as they had been partners. Before his first jump, Javier wouldn't have hesitated to call the other man his brother—though they had easily been far closer than many brothers Javier had met. So it was perhaps a little odd, in hindsight, that Jenny had never presented as a significant blip on Javier's radar. Partly, that was because Kevin never did talk much about anyone he was seeing until it was serious—he had always been a bit old fashioned that way—but once it had reached that point Kevin really hadn't been able to shut up about her. Still, Javier couldn't remember just how long she and Kevin had been dating before he had finally gotten the chance to meet her, and though Jenny and his partner had been together for more than a year, he could count on both hands the number of times he had spoken to her at length about anything other than Kevin.

That was _before_ his jump, of course.

That brief glimpse of their future had cast uncomfortable doubt upon his his and Kevin's relationship, leaving Javier to question their closeness to one another. During the months that followed, even though he had dismissed it as a dream, there had been several incidents where Javier had caught himself replaying the memory of his partner's lips on his. And if the hopeless snarl of fear and confusion those moments always inspired had lent an awkward dimension to Javier's friendship with Kevin, it was nothing compared to the damage done to his interactions with Jenny. Because he could half convince himself that the dream had meant nothing, but whenever he saw Jenny—or when Kevin talked about her, or when he simply heard her name—it became impossible for Javier to delude himself that the jealousy he felt could really be anything else.

Impossible to pretend that the feeling cutting his chest upon seeing Kevin propose to her had been anything but the sharp sting of loss.

And it had felt so foolish to mourn something that had never existed, desires Javier had hardly allowed himself to acknowledge let alone pursue. He had known only too keenly that it was something he would never have—_could_ never have—even if he had.

Then, only two weeks ago, Bennet's daughter had blown the lid off the existence of specials. Suddenly, the dream that Javier had tried so hard to dismiss had been rendered a potentiality in the larger puzzle—a part of the new reality he was being forced to accept. And in the days that had followed, Javier's jealousy toward Jenny had come to carry a much bitterer edge.

Because Javier still knew far too little about his ability, whatever it was. He didn't know how much of the future it was truly in his power to change. He had no way of knowing whether the future he had so briefly touched continued to exist—or whether Kevin's fears in that future had been borne out, and whatever life they would have had together destroyed beyond the chance of ever being. The thought had hurt more than Javier ever could have imagined...

Yet, if there was one thing that hurt Javier even more than the thought of having lost Kevin before he ever knew he might have had him, it was the bitter hope that he might have him _still_. For while his waking hours remained focused on the larger implications of his so called _talent_, the thought had crept in more than once during those unguarded moments before sleep...

If the future _was_ within his power to change—if the future he had seen might still lie ahead of him—then the possibility remained for things to turn out in his favor.

But Javier didn't need to be told how dangerous that kind of thinking was. Jenny made his partner happy, and whatever Javier might have wanted, he would never—_could_ never—do anything to harm that happiness for his own sake, no matter how much it hurt. Javier had agreed to be Kevin's best man for just that reason—because the pain he had inflicted in trying to strike a distance between them had been more than Javier could forgive himself—and resolved to keep his mouth shut, and his opinions to himself.

Even if, at times, it felt like he might choke on them.

Now, though, the thought tickled perversely through his mind that Konrad might be the only person with whom it was safe to share those opinions honestly. After all, once Petrelli fixed all this, _Kevin_ wasn't going to remember a word of it.

"She's, uh, blonde," Javier started hesitantly, and immediately felt a little stupid that he should start there. "Blue eyes. Pretty, I guess. I mean, she's nice looking. In that kind of...too perfect sort of way."

Javier cut himself off of that tract abruptly, because, yeah, _that_ sounded real fair.

"I haven't really put the time into getting to know her," Javier finally admitted, wetting his lips, "so I'm sure she's got a lot of nice qualities I haven't seen. But...honestly, I think she'd make a shitty wife for a cop. Because what I _have_ seen is that she's clingy. And pushy. And kind of high maintenance. And _far_ too quick to accuse Kevin of cheating on her. In front of the whole station. Based on a _joke_. And— God, can you believe he still proposed to her after a scene like that?"

Catching himself, Javier swore internally, taking a breath before he dared look Konrad in the eye. He honestly didn't know how to feel about what he saw. Konrad was watching him with a thoughtful, bemused expression. Upon seeing Javier's discomfort, though, it turned inexplicably embarrassed, and Konrad flashed him a wry but sheepish smile.

"Adam was right about one thing," he said. "I guess I _do_ have a type..."

And the way he tilted his head slightly at the thought was something Javier couldn't quite read... Though, if it had been Kevin sitting in front of him, Javier would have been sure he was missing something. After a moment and a short blink Konrad cleared his throat.

"Er, she sounds a lot like Sarah," he said, apparently by way of explanation. "The boys' mother."

Though it took Javier a few seconds to parse that the boys in question were the two old men he had met so very recently, once he had he couldn't help but laugh.

"I'm going to do Kevin a huge favor and _not_ tell him that Jenny reminds you of the mother of your serial killer babies," he said, knowing as he did that it was more than a little insensitive, but he was long past being shell shocked and exhausted beyond any reasonable control of his filters.

Fortunately, Konrad didn't seem to take offense. After a soft, sympathetic snort, his expression turned thoughtful.

"It might not be a bad idea, actually," Konrad said quietly. At Javier's blank look, he clarified. "Not telling him about Sam, I mean."

"I can't even begin to imagine what any of this must be like for him," Konrad said distantly, shaking his head at the thought. "What it has to be like finding out that the past you remember never happened... But I can't help but think that, if I was in his place, learning that I'd had sons just in time to lose them both would just about kill me."

Though, thinking back over the past night and the morning that had followed, Javier couldn't help but feel that, in a way, that was exactly what had happened.

Knowing Kevin as well as he did, it was impossible for Javier to disagree. Konrad's existence alone had almost been enough to break his partner. Javier didn't like the idea of lying to his partner, but the thought of adding all he now knew—Samson and his crimes, Martin and his bitterness, the lost memories of their life as a family that Konrad had been forced to leave behind—to what Kevin was already being forced to accept about himself, he couldn't help but feel it would be too much for Kevin. Too _soon_, at the very least.

Trying not to think about it too closely, Javier started the engine back up and carefully pulled the car back onto the road.

"There aren't any other kids out there, right?" Javier asked, as much to push aside his own unease as to distract Konrad from his. "Because that's something maybe me and Kevin should know about."

And Javier winced slightly at his own phrasing—him and Kevin—but it would be pointless for him to either correct the slip or dwell on it for long.

"No," Konrad said quietly, shaking his head. "No, I don't think so. There weren't many loves in my life after Sarah—and none you'd have to worry about. My feelings for Kaito Nakamura were always one-sided—Angela and I always had that much in common. The last real relationship I had was with my final partner, Haram, but then I wound up taking the Ghost's ability. He tried, I tried, but...that was really the end of it. More or less."

Konrad sighed, shaking his head.

"And I've never really enjoyed one-night stands," Konrad said wearily, "but afterward it was impossible to have anything more than that. I mean, sex can be casual without being meaningless, but it's hard enough finding a connection with a stranger without the knowledge that they're going to forget about you the very next day."

Javier said nothing—there was nothing he really _could_ say. The conversation had already lapsed too far into information he wasn't sure he really wanted. Somehow, it had never really struck him before how lonely Konrad's life must have been. Knowing about the ability that had cursed him was one thing, but it was entirely another hearing about the impact it had had on the man's life—how deep a wound it must have been. Just trying to imagine Kevin living through that...the idea broke his heart.

Yet oddly, though the topic could easily have turned maudlin, Konrad's lips curved in a faint smile.

"Though I guess there are always exceptions to the rule," Konrad said fondly. "Back in the late Sixties, just before I joined the Company there was this one woman—an actress. I think her name was Mary...or Molly?"

Konrad sighed.

"It was long enough ago that I don't remember," he said with a regretful smile, "but it would be impossible not to remember _her_, even after thirty years—or almost forty now, I suppose. And she really _wasn't_ my type, but I was leaving yet another life behind, and at the time the way she embraced life was exactly what I needed."

He turned quiet a moment, staring out the window as if lost in the memory.

"I don't know if we could have worked in the long term," Konrad finally said. "Maybe if we'd met a few days earlier, and I hadn't had to leave... Then again, maybe not with all my baggage. Still, I always thought it might have been nice to meet her again someday. Even only as friends."

And Javier wasn't sure how he should feel about the awkward discomfort he felt hearing that story. Fortunately, Konrad seemed to sense it, and offered him an apologetic smile. From there, the silence in the car was drown out by music rather than conversation as Konrad browsed channels on the radio. As tired as he was, and with so much on his mind, Javier's thoughts were already full of static, so rather than being annoyed with the habit it was so much easier just to let him.

Focused carefully on his driving and keeping other, distracting thoughts from his mind, most of it fell into the background anyway, so he couldn't quite pinpoint when Konrad had begun to whistle along with the music. There was a strange, echoing quality to it—almost a _buzzing _sound—so that, even once he had noticed, Javier couldn't seem to recognize the song underneath. He was almost moved to ask, but his tongue felt heavy, and he realized that his thoughts—and his breathing, he noted dully, and even his heart rate—had slowed to an unusual crawl. And a desperate, helpless kind of alarm rose in the back of his mind as Javier realized what was happening, but even that felt strangely out of reach...

Finally, though, even that fear flickered and was extinguished, quenched beneath the rising static.

* * *

**Translation:  
**

"_Amant_", "_caro_", "_erastís"_ - French, Italian and Greek respectively, meaning "lover" or "beloved".

"_Schade._" - "Pity."


	44. Chapter Twenty-Five: Proof of Life

**Chapter 25: Proof of Life**  
_"We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful about what we pretend to be."_  
—_Kurt Vonnegut, __Mother Night_

* * *

"_Take me out tonight... Take me anywhere, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care... And in the darkened underpass I thought, 'Oh God, my chance has come at last'. But then a strange fear gripped me and I just couldn't ask..._"

All things considered, Javier knew there were worse sounds to wake up to with a hangover than the sound of his partner singing softly along with the radio. Not that Kevin would ever be able to quit his day job for it, but he could carry a tune well enough and the sound of his voice was...nice. Awareness filtered back in slowly, and Javier listened with half an ear, waiting patiently for the fog in his head to clear and for the heavy, tingling listlessness in his muscles to fade away. Slowly—_far_ too slowly for his tastes—both symptoms eased off enough, as well as the disorientation that went with them, for Javier to recognize that they weren't the signs of any normal hangover. Once he had, the memory returned to him of his last moments before losing consciousness...

And, when it did, Javier also realized that it wasn't _Kevin_ that was singing.

"And if a double-decker bus crashes into us, to die by your side is such a heavenly way to die..."

Inanely, the thought tickled in the back of Javier's mind that, where Kevin's affection for the Smiths had never quite seemed to fit, for _Konrad_ it made perfect sense...

Javier chose to blame it on the strange fuzziness still clinging to this thoughts.

It was a hard fight to full alertness, and even once he had his entire body felt like a waking limb, prickling sharply with returning sensation as the heavy numbness gradually went away. Opening his eyes, Javier quickly confirmed—surprisingly—that they were still in his car, though they were pulled over and parked outside of a post office, and Javier now sat on the passenger side. With the numbness finally passing, Javier became aware of a dull ache in his neck, which was _un_surprising considering the position he was lying in. Trying to straighten up, Javier was unable to hold back a groan.

Though the noise was was soft Konrad must have heard it, even over the radio, because his singing trailed off abruptly. Though he didn't look up from what he was doing—occupied once again, it seemed, with some nonsense on Javier's phone—there was a stiff, guilty tension wound into his posture. Javier watched him in silence for a moment, for some inexplicable reason feeling generous enough to give Konrad a chance to explain himself. Another minute ticked by in which Konrad refused to even look at him, but Javier watched him slowly grow more anxious and fidgety under the scrutiny.

"Just...what the hell?" Javier asked finally, as much for the sake of his own head as to stop the whirlwind of guilty misdirection that instinct screamed was about to be hurled his way.

Because the whole situation had plowed violently through Javier's supply of fucks-to-give, and right now he simply didn't have the strength.

"You nodded off and almost drove us off the road again," Konrad told him, cautiously. "You didn't trust me to drive us all the way back to the station, but you said I could find us a safe place to park. I called Detective Beckett to let her know we would be...delayed. Then her partner walked me through sending him a photo of you while you were sleeping—_proof of life_, he said—and you clearly needed the rest, so I was just killing time while waiting for you to wake up. And I'm sorry if the music woke you, but it was really quiet in here and I just—"

"Stop," Javier said, interrupting him tiredly. "I believe you."

Though in actuality—the part about Castle excepted—Javier absolutely didn't.

Javier didn't have proof, but he would have been willing to bet that Konrad had roofied him with the same ability he had used on Samson back in the hospital. But he didn't like the idea of bringing that mess back up again, so if Konrad saw fit to toss him an acceptable lie, Javier was willing to play along. At this point Javier felt interrogating him again would be a waste of time, and an unacceptable distraction when he was so close to getting Kevin back. He found it very hard to care about Konrad's motives in the face of that. Hell, for all Javier knew, Konrad might have just thought he needed the sleep that badly.

Though there _was_ one thing that was still bothering him...

"You could have run," Javier said.

Javier didn't like to acknowledge that—the fact that he was essentially at Konrad's mercy—didn't like to think about how easily he might have lost track of him again.

Beside him, Konrad let out a startled laugh.

"Keith Richards is still alive?"

The non sequitur threw Javier for approximately three seconds, at the end of which he leaned over, switching off the radio before snatching his phone decisively from Konrad's hands. Finally meeting his eye, Konrad had the audacity to affect an expression of surprise. Javier refused to let it phase him, holding the man's gaze. An uncomfortable silence fell between them.

"Why didn't you run?" Javier asked finally.

"I said I wouldn't," Konrad said simply, looking away again.

Though Javier doubted it was the whole truth, for Konrad seemed as disturbed thinking about his answer as Javier had the question. Javier waited patiently, and after a few moments he was rewarded. Konrad let out a soft sigh, letting his head fall back against the seat. His glance at Javier was thoughtful, and after a moment it seemed he came to a decision.

"Adam—" Konrad began, though his voice initially faltered. "Adam was my closest friend for more than three decades, but thirty years ago he tried to unleash a plague that would have condemned billions of people to death. Their lives meant _nothing_ to him."

Konrad shook his head, his expression bewildered, as if even now, after so many years, he still had difficulty believing it.

"Even having grown up in the time and place I did," he said, "I _still_ can't comprehend that kind of hate. But then I'm only about ninety. I know that sounds old, but Adam has lived almost four times as long... You have no idea how much it scares me, the thought that I might end up like him some day. Maybe that's inevitable, maybe it's not possible to live that long, see that much death and still value human life... But if it _is_ meant to happen, even if this only puts it off a few decades it would be worth it. "

Konrad fell silent for a moment. Javier almost might have thought he was finished, but he could see the wheels still turning in there. He waited, and after a few moments Konrad continued hesitantly, wetting his lips.

"Do you know why I joined the _Schutzstaffel_?" Konrad asked.

And Javier figured that might just be the most obviously rhetorical question he had heard in his life. It wasn't even a question that it had even occurred to him might need asking. Handling Konrad in the present and imagining his impact on Kevin's future were each hard enough tasks on their own without trying to work the past into the equation—a past that, from Javier's perspective, felt as distant and as abstract as reading a history book. Though he knew and—to a limited value of the word—understood what Konrad's role in history had been, it wasn't something that Javier had truly been able to fathom. And, if anything, it was harder now than it had ever been...

Having come to know Konrad—having learned to see _Kevin_ in him—it was nearly impossible for Javier to imagine him doing any of the things that he knew Konrad must have done.

Seeing the blankness with which Javier met the question, Konrad's mouth turned, a faint, rueful smile gracing his lips that was entirely without humor.

"I had a choice," Konrad said, softly. "Not much of one, but it was a choice. I could have joined the _Wehrmacht_, you see. No one goes to war and comes back innocent, but there are degrees. I think that if I had, I might have managed to come back with a conscience that was almost clean—or clean enough to live with, at any rate. Every now and then I think about that...imagine how differently things might have been. I would never have been transferred to Auschwitz, never met Adam... I'd be an old man, somewhere...or I might have died years ago. But that old man would never have had to see the things I saw. Do the things I did. Whatever life he would have lived, it would have been much happier..."

"But some people know what they want from life from the time they are children," Konrad continued, "and from as far back as I can remember, I wanted to be a detective. And, during the war, the _Kriminalpolizei _operated under the control of the _SS_."

Konrad snorted a faint laugh, shaking his head.

"I sold my soul," Konrad said, turning to look Javier in the eye, "because I thought it would be better for my _career_."

Javier said nothing. There really was nothing he _could_ say to that. And, if anything, he thought Konrad appreciated the opportunity his silence afforded to arrange his thoughts. His eyes settled on some indefinable point beyond the window. He paused once more for just a moment, distressed lines etched into his forehead, but after a moment they smoothed out, the expression growing thoughtful.

Finally, he said:

"Did you know that Noah Bennet was a car salesman before he was recruited to the Company?"

And Javier couldn't imagine anything breaking the tension of Konrad's reminiscence more completely than that. In spite of everything, it shocked a startled laugh out of him.

"_What_?"

"Back then, I thought the whole thing was ridiculous," Konrad said with a slight smile, "but Angela said he had a destiny. And she was right of course—she always is—but it took a lot of convincing. And I still remember what she told me... She said, 'It's never too late to become what we might have been.'"

The smile lingered as he finished speaking, and when he turned to look at him, Javier was slightly stunned to see real warmth in his eyes.

"Kevin Ryan has the job I always wanted, a pretty fiance, loyal friends...and a partner who would go to the ends of the Earth for him. I might not have _meant_ to create him, but...somehow he has become the man I always wanted to be— Maybe the man I _would_ have been if not for the war."

And, though his smile turned sad, there was no regret in his voice, and no uncertainty.

"Accident or not, that man exists," Konrad said. "I don't think I could live with myself if I destroyed him."


	45. Chapter Twenty-Six: Forget-Me-Not

**Chapter Twenty-Six: Forget-Me-Not**

_"It's easier to ask forgiveness than permission."_  
—_Grace Hopper_

* * *

Javier refused to believe that his involuntary nap had anything at all to do with the unexpected lift to his spirits. Only, in stark contrast to all the other denials he had found himself nursing over the past few days, in this case it was actually possible he was right. Because for the first time since Kevin had closed his eyes and Konrad opened them the prospect of his partner's return felt like a _certainty_. They weren't quite out of the woods yet—and Javier would never be able to fully relax until Kevin was safely back where he belonged—but there were simply no words encompassing the strain that Konrad, with just his willing cooperation, had lifted from his shoulders.

(And there was a cynical voice in his head—one that Javier tried not to name or examine closely—that whispered how Kevin's return to him would still only be the beginning... But any beginning was preferable to the alternative, and Javier had decisively shoved the thought from his mind. Spoilers or no, he could only cross those bridges once they came.)

Beyond his own, distant doubts, only one thing held Javier's euphoria in check.

On their way back to the station Konrad had gone silent again, and though it wasn't the leaden, impenetrable vacancy that had stolen over him before his visit at the hospital, his manner was removed in a way that Javier didn't like at all. And it didn't feel right letting him turn inward like that, but Javier couldn't think of a damned thing that might snap him out of it, not when the only thing he could say with any real feeling would be to thank him—for giving him Kevin, and for choosing to give him back—but how could you even begin to thank someone for deciding not to _exist_?

The question stayed with Javier through the final leg of their drive, and it was only once they stood in the garage once more that Javier found his answer.

"I can't pretend to know what it's like to have lived the life you have," Javier said, stumbling a bit as Konrad turned to look at him. "But I do know one thing. Those things you're afraid of? Those things you fear about yourself? The Kevin Ryan I know could never be capable of that. _Never_. Not if he lived for four hundred years or four _thousand_. I know that—_know_ it. I just do."

There was a shake in his voice, but Javier chose to blame it on the empty space surrounding them. Konrad's expression was unaffected by the words, but his eyes were guarded and wary.

"And if there's even the smallest sliver shared between the two of you," Javier concluded firmly, "then I don't think you ever could be, either."

And Javier did believe that, to the core of his very soul. Whatever sins Konrad had committed in the past, whatever crimes or wrongs or acts of evil he may have committed, he would never be capable of that kind of callousness. He would never be _that_ kind of monster, because he would never not _care_.

Konrad's lips parted briefly in surprise before he managed a very faint smile.

"Thank you, Detective Esposito."

"Javier," he insisted.

And Konrad spared a glance toward the elevator, a wry quirk sliding into his expression.

"Soon enough."

They rode the elevator upward in an almost companionable silence—one, Javier noted, that remained strangely unbroken, even as other officers joined them in the car. He had the good sense not to say anything—not out loud—though he directed an accusing glare Konrad's way. The other man met him with an exaggerated look of innocence, and it wasn't until the car had emptied and they were alone again that Javier asked.

"We're both invisible right now, aren't we?"

Konrad gave a slight shrug.

"It's been a long couple of days," Konrad said. "For _both_ of us. I figured we could do without the fuss."

And it was difficult for Javier to argue with that logic, though there was a faint suspicion itching at the back of his mind. Unfortunately, Javier hardly had the time to examine those suspicions before they finally reached their floor. Even if he had thought to ask, he was distracted as Konrad brought him to a halt with a hand on his shoulder. Looking over, Javier saw him looking down the hallway with a perplexed expression. One that didn't make any sense until he saw who Konrad had seen...

"Wait..." Konrad managed slowly, his voice still low enough not to be heard over the ambient noises of the station. "That voice on the phone... Is Detective Beckett's partner _Richard_ Castle? The writer?"

"Uh...yeah," Javier answered, somewhat disarmed. Seeing _Konrad_ surprised for a change was...just a bit refreshing. "It's...kind of a long story."

Konrad tilted his head slightly.

"Huh."

Oddly, though he was sure he had never seen Kevin do it before, Javier thought the gesture felt startlingly familiar nonetheless. But he couldn't manage to place it before he realized that Konrad's attention had shifted once again, and the man was looking at him with a contemplative expression. He seemed a little nervous, uncertain, and for a moment Javier was worried that he might be having second thoughts about turning his life back over to Kevin.

"You know," Konrad said, quietly, "Claude used to talk about an odd euphoria he would sometimes experience when he was walking around unseen. Something about the thrill of being able to do just about anything and not get caught... I never really understood what he was talking about. After spending so many years practically forgotten, not being seen either felt...too much like not existing."

A thought occurred to Javier that probably should have before that moment.

"Do you—" he stopped himself, thinking over his words. "The Ghost's ability. Am I going to forget this whole thing? You? I mean—"

And Javier was surprised that the thought horrified him as much as it did. The expression on Konrad's face was difficult to read, though his brief glance into the other room seemed to break the spell, urging him to some action. Javier was vaguely aware of footsteps behind him as Konrad leaned in.

"Let's hope not," Konrad said, smiling suddenly, brightly.

He never got to ask the other man what he meant, but it became rather obvious as Konrad took Javier's face in his hands, and pulled him into a swift kiss. The action left Javier so shocked that he couldn't even think, let alone get his hands to act, and before he even had the chance Konrad had stepped away. And he must have released his invisibility as he did so, because Javier heard a startled noise from behind him.

"Konrad."

Turning around, Javier saw Kate staring at the both of them—because they had _appeared out of nowhere_, Javier was certain. And he still couldn't get his tongue to work, but Konrad seemed not to have any problem picking up the slack.

"I'm sorry for the scare, Detective Beckett," Konrad said with an easy smile, "but I've brought both of your detectives back to you, as promised."

**(—**  
**=)**

If there was one thing Javier felt grateful for it was the fact that, with the events of the past few days, there wasn't a soul on the planet who would be surprised to see him a bit...rattled. And so, while he very much doubted that Kate could have missed either his silence or the way his hands were shaking, she had been charitable enough not to mention it while Konrad was within earshot. Instead, she waited until Konrad was safely sitting in interrogation, awaiting Petrelli's return.

They hadn't left him alone, of course—_Castle_ had the honor of keeping that watch. Sure, Javier and Kate would only be in the next room, and there were officers posted on the door, and one had been ordered to stay in room with Konrad at all times—Kate had insisted—though Javier could imagine that even that had taken Castle a great deal of convincing. Briefly distracted, Javier thought he would have loved to be a fly on _that_ wall. Poor Konrad... For a moment, Javier almost felt sorry for him.

_Almost_.

Stepping into the observation room, Javier's mirth died as he caught sight of Konrad through the mirror. The sound was turned off, and Javier couldn't hear their conversation, but he watched Konrad and Castle speak to each other, their faces amusingly animated. If he hadn't known better, Javier didn't think he would have been able to guess that anything was wrong. His mind jumped back with a panicked suddenness to the kiss that had scrambled his brain. He tried pull reign on his thoughts, to control his composure and breathing, and above all to tell himself that it didn't matter.

If he could just manage to keep it together, very soon _none_ of it would matter, because he would finally have his partner _back_.

"You need to tell me what happened," Kate said.

With the speakers turned off, the observation room was very quiet, and the sudden sound of her voice startled him just a little. And there was a split second where Javier almost told her, assuming that she was talking about the kiss in the hallway, and how in the hell was he going to begin to _explain_ that— But that second ticked quickly by, and Javier stilled himself, because he _knew_ she didn't know, hadn't seen, and couldn't possibly suspect... No, what Kate was asking for was a debrief of his trip with Konrad.

Unfortunately, as Javier cast his mind back, he realized there were problems with sharing _that_ information as well.

"We—" Javier stopped himself, blinking with a frown as the words hung. Finally he looked at her and said, "I don't remember, Kate. I don't remember anything that happened after Konrad got my gun."

He ran a hand over his face.

"Damn it, Konrad probably cranked up his memory nullification ability as soon as he broke out to try and cover his tracks."

"But he came back," Kate said slowly, as if trying to prompt his memory.

"He must have done whatever it was he intended to do," Javier said.

"Bennet's going to want to know what that was, Javier," Kate said. "I can't imagine him being comfortable letting that mystery slide."

Though it went without saying that she felt the same.

"Kate, if we try to interrogate him again he might change his mind," Javier said. "We can't risk that. We need Kevin back as soon as Petrelli can get him."

And he could tell that Kate was unhappy, unsatisfied at the thought of never knowing, but he also knew she would be forced to agree. None of them trusted Bennet, and Kate would never choose answers at the cost of losing a friend. She wouldn't like it, but he knew she would accept it. Though none of them could have anticipated the change, the case had drawn them into a very different world than the one they knew. And while he didn't like it either, Javier's glimpses of the future had left him just far enough ahead of the rest of them to anticipate that uncertainty, dissatisfaction, and not knowing were only one small part of that world which, one day, they would all have to get used to.

Still, even her slow acceptance of questions left unanswered just went to show how deeply this whole thing had shaken their foundations...

Because Kate was usually a whole lot better at noticing when Javier was telling a lie.


	46. Chapter Twenty-Seven: The Man Who Wasn't

**Chapter 27: The Man Who Wasn't There**

_The planting of a tree, especially one of the long-living hardwood trees, is a gift which you can make to posterity at almost no cost and with almost no trouble, and if the tree takes root it will far outlive the visible effect of any of your other actions, good or evil._  
―_George Orwell_

* * *

Beckett had asked Detective Esposito to step away to speak with her—eager for his account of what had happened on the road, of that Konrad had no doubt. He sincerely wished the detective luck. Konrad still felt a twinge of guilt for his stunt in the hallway. Yet, though he hadn't expected a stolen kiss to upset the man so badly, it would have been impossible for Konrad to truly _regret_ it.

At any rate, his present company made it difficult to dwell on it.

He had to marvel, just a little, at the thought of being left alone in an interrogation room with _Richard Castle_ of all people. Despite the many strange and often alarming things Konrad had seen in his life, it was this exact kind of small, random, and seemingly insignificant event that managed to throw him off every time. Still, all things considered, the distraction was not unwelcome. If for no other reason than because the writer's energy—still nervous and uncertain, but an improvement over both the fear he had experienced around most of the officers and Javier's distraught tension. It was...actually quite refreshing.

Though Konrad noted that the officer they had stationed in the room with them also seemed far calmer than the ones that had stood guard over him before. Perhaps, with their case closed and their comrade about to be returned to them, they were finally beginning to relax.

"So, uh, Mr. Reichardt," Castle began awkwardly once Detectives Beckett and Esposito had left. "Er, _Herr _Reichardt? Konrad?"

"Konrad's fine," he offered helpfully, though after a moment he added, "though I suppose you could call me Ryan, if it's easier for you."

Castle was quiet for a moment, his expression slightly distant and thoughtful, as if he were examining the offer thoroughly in his head.

"No," Castle said finally, softly, looking Konrad in the eye. "No, I don't think I could."

It was a deceptively simple statement, without accusation or judgment in it. A very slight, somewhat crooked smile ticked at the corner of the writer's mouth. Konrad returned it with an easy grace.

"Fair enough," Konrad said.

The exchange left them sitting in an awkward silence...though thankfully not for very long.

"You know, I've got all these things I want to ask you," Castle said, suddenly and a bit sheepishly. "I mean, when am I ever going to get the chance to—"

He brought himself up short, clearly realizing his implication.

"That is," Castle said after a while, slowly, seeming somewhat reluctant, "there's so much that I want to know about you. And maybe I shouldn't—Kevin is a friend, and I kind of feel like I'm betraying him by even asking. But I've read your files, the ones that Hiro brought, and your life is...it's fascinating. You've done so much, seen so much—you've _been _so many things. And if it doesn't feel right wanting to know those things, it also wouldn't be right just to let you _disappear_, not completely."

Konrad was somewhat taken aback, and after a moment he quietly nodded his understanding.

"Can't say I don't have a few questions of my own," Konrad admitted, allowing himself a small smile. "I mean...how does a mystery writer wind up working with the NYPD? Detective Esposito told me it was a long story, but if there's any chance you could shorten it, I'd really like to hear it before I'm...gone. If you'll tell me that then while I'm still here I'll answer any questions you have."

Konrad paused.

"Though I'm afraid I probably won't have time for most of them," he amended, half regretfully.

"I guess not..." Castle said, seeming sobered by the thought, though he readily agreed.

"It all started—" Castle began, "as things so often do—with a murder."

And as they waited for Peter's return, the writer told him about the case that had brought him in contact with Beckett and Esposito—and with Ryan, of course. About finding once again, in Kate Beckett, the inspiration he thought he had lost. He told Konrad about the new series of books that had followed—about it's characters Raley, Ochoa, and Nikki Heat—and even about some of the amusing trauma that had occurred surrounding a visiting actress from the upcoming film. And it truly was an amusing and amazing story. In spite of the choice he had made and the end that he knew was coming because of it, Konrad found his spirits surprisingly lifted...

Though Konrad thought that might still have less to do with the story and more to do with the man telling it. Even as subdued as it must have been because of their circumstances, there was something about Castle's infectious energy that put him at ease in a familiar way he couldn't quite place.

And Castle hadn't been lying when he said he had questions—as it turned out, he had so many that he had struggled at first to decide how to start. For the most part, the writer was interested in Konrad's time at the Company—the strange events he had seen, specials he had fought or fought alongside of. At this point, Konrad felt he had very little indeed to lose by answering—keeping those secrets had stopped being his responsibility a long time ago. Castle also seemed interested in basic information about Konrad's early life, little details about his childhood and his family.

Castle very conspicuously avoided asking about the war. Konrad thought that he was trying to be polite, or else the topic simply made him uncomfortable—it _clearly_ wasn't for lack of curiosity.

"Hey..." Castle asked suddenly, somehow managing to interrupt his own line of questioning. "Isn't that Javier's jacket?"

And Konrad actually had to look down before it even occurred to him that— Oh. Right. Konrad reached down, slowly pulling the zipper to inspect the damage. When he looked up, he was entirely unsurprised to find the writer staring, looking somewhat pale.

"Yeah, there was this thing where he...kind of shot me," Konrad said with a wince. "A bit. Do you there's any chance I could get a clean shirt before...you know. I'm sure your friend would probably appreciate it."

Castle stared silently for a few seconds before he finally nodded his head.

"Uh...yeah. That'd be best." With a blink the writer turned to address the officer, who had been observing their conversation in silence. "You'll be okay on your own, right?"

The cop favored him with a raised eyebrow.

"I think I'll manage," the officer said, an amused smirk on his lips.

Once Castle had gone, Konrad removed the jacket and inspected the inside of it carefully. He was relieved to find it wasn't a total loss. Probably. With a sigh he folded carefully, setting it on the table.

"They don't think you'll run," the officer observed suddenly.

Konrad turned toward him with a puzzled frown.

"I guess they figure I had my chance," Konrad offered carefully in reply.

To be honest, Konrad had half forgotten the man was there.

When he had first entered the room, Konrad had been sure the officer hadn't been one of the ones guarding him before—he had a good eye for faces, and the experience of an armed escort was profoundly memorable. The officer was stocky, muscular young man in his early twenties, his dark-blonde hair shaved close to the scalp in a military style that was common among members of law enforcement. "_Watts_" was the name beneath the badge on his uniform. None of this rang any bells to Konrad, and until the officer had spoken he had thought nothing of it— Now, however, it seemed as though there _was_ something familiar about the man...some detail that Konrad couldn't quite put his finger on. It wasn't the nagging, disembodied tug of recognition that he had felt upon confronting Javier the first time—that strange, disarming feeling of knowing, deeply, a stranger that he had effectively never met—nor even the similar but less intense sense of simple _ease_ he felt around Castle.

No, Konrad was sure that he had met this man before—as himself, not as Ryan. But in an ironic and irritating reversal, the memory eluded him.

"You didn't have to come back," Watts said, his inflection neutral, if slightly curious. "Why did you?"

"Why does it matter?" Konrad asked.

And if Konrad had found the man's line of questioning unnerving, it was just as clear that the officer wasn't any more eager to answer than he was. Watts seemed to hesitate for a moment, glancing briefly at the room's mirrored wall. Konrad didn't know if anyone was watching them from outside the room, but he felt it was profoundly likely. In fact, he wouldn't have been at all surprised to learn that Bennet was back there right now, and if that was the case then Konrad could hardly fault the man his uncertainty.

Still, after a long moment of consideration, the officer seemed to come to a decision.

"I was the one who talked Detective Ryan into letting you out," Watts said. And Konrad thought that he might be struggling with some doubts about making that decision. "But he _was _given that choice. I just wanted to make sure you got the same courtesy."

And Konrad knew, in that instant, that whatever the man's appearance he _wasn't_ a police officer, at least not from this station. Yet his words hinted at some deeper involvement in events. A former agent, perhaps? If the man had worked at the Company, or if his file had come across Konrad's desk prior to his desertion, that might manage to explain the recognition he felt.

"Have we met before?" Konrad finally asked.

Watts seemed somewhat surprised by the question, though he quickly threw it off. His lips quirked in a sly smile.

"You wouldn't recognize me if we had."

And when Konrad watched the man's features twist and reform only to find himself staring into his own face—_Ryan's_ face—he actually thought for a split second—

But no, the real answer came to him quickly enough.

"A shapeshifter," Konrad observed with interest, shaking off his disquiet.

Then, after a moment it clicked.

"That was how you guys caught Adam," Konrad realized. He couldn't help help but admire the trick. "Bennet's idea?"

"Peter's," the man answered with a slight smile.

Though somewhat surprised, Konrad was forced to return it.

"He takes more closely after his mother than I thought," Konrad said with amusement. Though, after a moment that thought gave way to another, less pleasant one. "I guess for some of us there really is no escaping the shadow of our family."

Konrad found himself thinking with deep regret of Samson, and of the fate he had suffered simply for being Konrad's son. And as painful as his parting with Martin had been, it was difficult now to begrudge him the freedom he had won from Konrad's shadow. Whatever his step-son chose to do with the rest of his life, Konrad wished him luck.

"I guess not," the other man said quietly, his own smile turning quite unpleasant.

And if Konrad had to guess, he would have said the other man likely knew what it was to be tainted by a family's darkness. But guessing was all he could do, for soon after the doorknob rattled, signaling the writer's return. Just as quickly as it had first happened—and before Castle had the chance to see—the other man's face changed, recovering the guise of the police officer that he had adopted.

After that, Konrad was given privacy—or a fair illusion of it anyway.

As he stripped himself of the bloodied shirt, the task struck him as painfully symbolic—in a very few minutes Angela's son would return, and Konrad would become Ryan again. In spite of his decision, it would have been a lie to say he wasn't struggling with the idea. Still, knowing now that Ryan—_Kevin_—had come into this same room and willingly handed over the reigns to his life, it would have been genuinely shameful if Konrad lacked the courage to do the same.

Looking in the mirror, Konrad carefully straightened the buttons of his shirt. With effort he managed a smile.

"_Also dann... Bis nächstes Mal, Herr Reichardt._"

* * *

**Translation:**

"_Also dann... Bis nächstes Mal, Herr Reichardt._"_ – _"___Well then... Until next time, Mr. Reichardt._"


	47. Chapter Twenty-Eight: Rude Awakening

**Chapter 28: Rude Awakening**

_Once I dreamt I was a butterfly, a butterfly flitting and fluttering around, doing as I pleased. I was conscious only of my happiness as a butterfly, unaware that I was myself. Suddenly I woke up and there I was, myself again. But I didn't know if I was myself who had dreamt I was a butterfly, or a butterfly dreaming he was me._  
—_Zhuang Zi_

* * *

"You should get that."

Someone was knocking on his door again. Whoever it was, they were persistent—Kevin had been doing his best to ignore the sound for what felt like several hours. He had decided not to answer it because...

(_"Why is it so quiet in here?"_ )

He couldn't quite remember. Whatever it was, he thought, it couldn't have been that important.

"Not yet," Kevin said, returning his focus to the game. "It can wait. Let's finish this round first."

Though it was possible that the knocking was getting louder, because it was becoming more difficult for Kevin to push his awareness of it to the side.

"Bro, you really should get that. What if it's Jenny?"

"It's _not_," Kevin said, keeping his eyes on the screen. "She had that thing tonight, remember?"

Though Kevin couldn't now remember exactly what that thing was, either.

It did make sense, though—if Jenny had had plans it would have been the perfect opportunity for a game night. He and Javier hadn't had one in far too long—at least not a proper one, not like this. It had been months since Kevin had managed to feel this relaxed with his partner—back before things had gotten weird and complicated, and that confusing tension had stolen its way into their friendship. Kevin missed those days so badly. And he never missed them more than during the time that he and his partner _did_ still spend together. No matter how pleasant it was, it always seemed to fall just short of the mark. But tonight, for the first time in ages, it felt like it used to—it felt like it was _supposed_ to—and that wasn't something that Kevin was prepared to give up.

Not without a fight.

"Hey, keep your eyes on your side of the screen, Javi, you just shot me—"

"It's time for you to answer the door, Kev."

Javier said it very slowly, his voice soft and oddly solemn, and there was something strangely hollow about his partner's insistence that crept up on him, instilling Kevin with a peculiar sense of dread.

"I can't," Kevin said, his voice trembling just a little. He didn't dare to look at his partner, too afraid that if he did he would be forced to do what Javier asked. "I'm not ready."

Because he could feel it—even though he wasn't being allowed to remember what it was, Kevin _knew_ that something was wrong. There was something lurking on the edge of thought and memory, something painful and horrifying—something _destroying_—that he didn't want to face. Something that was impossible for him to fight or to change, something that couldn't be ignored or denied. Something that he didn't want to accept—perhaps _couldn't_ accept, not without being unmade.

_Unmade_...

(_"Kev... This looks like your handwriting." _)

Kevin stood, slowly, turning to stare at the door. The banging was so much louder now, rattling the door on its hinges with every blow. A few nearby picture frames had fallen from the walls. Yet in spite of the violence he knew the chain would hold—it would hold for as long as he needed it to. Nothing could force him to leave...he would have to _choose_ to. He looked away with a shudder, _knowing_...

Knowing now exactly what that would mean.

"I'm not ready, Javier," Kevin said, shaking his head. He was safe here, and as long as he stayed whatever was out _there_ couldn't hurt him. "I _can't_—"

"You have to, Kevin," Javier interrupted. "You _know_ you have to."

"Javier, _please_..."

"I know you're afraid, Kevin, but you can't stay," Javier said, softly. "You need to _trust _me."

(_"Kevin, I want you to trust me. Can you do that?" _)

"I _do_ trust you, Javi..." Kevin said wearily, finally looking his partner in the eye. "I'd trust you with anything, only—"

Kevin stopped himself, taking a deep breath.

"Only, you're not really Javier," Kevin said, acknowledging that fact slowly. "Because this place—this moment—is all in my head, and right now there isn't anyone I trust less than myself."

No one in the whole world that felt more like a stranger.

"I don't know if I can do this," Kevin said. "I don't know if I can survive the truth—all the confusion and grief and fear and guilt that's waiting on the other side of that door. It's too much, and it's something that, once I leave this place, I am _never_ going to be able to escape."

"It's going to hurt, Kev," Javier said, mournfully. "It's going to hurt a _lot_, but you can't give up. That's what staying here is, Kevin. It's giving up. It's saying that nothing that you've ever done—none of the things that have made you who _you_ are—ever mattered. And you don't believe that. I know you don't believe that, because _I_ don't believe it. I know you—I know _exactly_ who you are—and you are a _lot_ stronger than you believe yourself to be. I _know_ you can beat this, Kev."

And knowing that all of this was an illusion within his own mind, Kevin was caught off guard by that level of certainty. It was faith and confidence and purpose that, before, Kevin would never have thought he possessed—but that he now realized, in the life that lay ahead of him, he would be unable to survive without. He would need faith—_strong_ faith—in the simple fact that he existed, and that his life held meaning.

Yet, if it surprised him to find these things in himself, it didn't surprise him at all that those virtues would be represented in Javier.

(_"We'll get through this. I promise." _)

"Okay," Kevin said.

And his voice was a dried and terrified whisper, but it was still a promise—to himself, and to everyone to whom that person still mattered—that he _would _fight. That he would take that first step.

Before he even realized it the doorknob was in his hand.

Sparing one final look back at his partner, he saw Javier smile.

"See you _soon_, Kev."

**(—**  
**=)**

When Kevin opened his eyes, it took a few moments for his awareness to fall into place.

He was sitting in the interrogation room, and Peter Petrelli sat at the table before him. At first glance, so little seemed to have changed that, just for a moment, Kevin wondered if whatever Peter had meant to do hadn't worked. But as other details trickled in, Kevin realized that his arms were no longer chained, and that his partner sat in a chair beside him. Turning to look at Javier in surprise, Kevin was shocked at what he saw. His partner had a split lip, and there was a dark bruise decorating the side of his face. He looked absolutely exhausted. But he was staring into Kevin's eyes with an intense, searching attention, his expression equal parts wary and hopeful in a way that Kevin couldn't quite manage to interpret.

"Kev?"

Javier sounded like he was making sure.

Kevin found that he couldn't respond—he could barely _breathe_, his chest painfully tight as it sunk in that he was missing time. And if _he_ hadn't been there—if Javier hadn't known for certain who he was looking at—then he knew _Konrad_ must have been there in his place, and there was no way for Kevin to know for how long, or what he might have done—

His heart was hammering violently in his chest, his anxiety and confusion threatening to devolve into full-blown panic, but Javier reached out to squeeze his shoulder.

"Hey, Kev, stay with me. Are you with me?" And when Kevin still didn't respond, his partner's hand slid up to the back of his neck, forcing him to look Javier in the eye. "Easy... It's okay. You're okay. It's over."

Firm but gentle, the contact helped to anchor him, their eye contact offering him something else on which he could focus.

"Javi, your face..."

Kevin stretched out his fingers to inspect the damage, but though his touch was light he watched Javier flinch. Not from pain, Kevin slowly realized. Recognizing the sudden alarm he saw in his partner's eyes, Kevin drew his hand back as if burned feeling a sick fear begin to squirm in his stomach.

"Oh, God... Did _I—_"

Kevin was hardly given a chance to fully think it before Javier visibly shook off whatever it was that had spooked him. Taking careful hold of Kevin's wrist Javier pulled it back between them, looking Kevin firmly in the eye.

"Just a misunderstanding," Javier said firmly—though Kevin wasn't sure if his partner was referring to the bruises or his own reaction. "Don't worry about it."

Kevin opened his mouth to argue, but the words just wouldn't come. Though he had so far avoided falling apart, his thoughts were still far too jumbled and chaotic for him to latch on to any one thing. Javier seemed to sense this and leaned in close enough so that, speaking softly, he could be heard.

"We got our killer, Kev," Javier said. "We got him. It wasn't you, and it wasn't Konrad, and—"

"How long?" Kevin finally managed to ask shakily. "How long was I—"

He was at a loss for how he should even frame the question. Fortunately, it required no clarification.

"Two days," Javier said, his eyes distant with a soft, weary expression of disbelief. "God...just two days. It felt like so much longer..."

Just two whole days that, to Kevin, had passed in the blink of an eye, because for two whole days Kevin hadn't _existed_ in any practical sense of the word.

Kevin's mind hung helplessly on the thought. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath in the hope that it might allow him to focus his thoughts into something coherent. But there was no way for him to examine the fact of his circumstances that could successfully blind him to their horror, and the attempt only sent him crashing back against the madness of it. Distantly, he was aware of pulling his hand back from his partner's grasp and curling in on himself, his elbows resting on the table to support him while his fingers threaded themselves tightly in his hair.

It took several slow, shaking breaths and the weight of Javier's arm slung carefully across his shoulder before Kevin finally managed to get a grip on himself. Opening his eyes, he saw that Petrelli was gone and only he and his partner remained. Though he knew their privacy was more than likely an illusion, Kevin was thankful. Even if Bennet and all the others were still watching from the observation room, at least Kevin could pretend that he wasn't falling apart in front of an audience...

Javier's arm tightened briefly around his shoulders. It took effort, but Kevin managed to signal his recovery with a nod and a weak attempt at a smile.

"What happened, Javier?" Kevin finally asked him. "What did—"

_Jesus Christ,_ Kevin thought to himself, _how the hell are you going to deal with any of this if you can't even bring yourself to say his name?_

"What happened?" he asked again, a short moment later.

Because Kevin desperately needed to know what he had missed while he was...gone.

Javier hesitated briefly, letting his arm fall from Kevin's shoulders with a slight frown. Kevin couldn't imagine it was easy to figure out what to say or where to begin. After several slow, silent seconds of consideration Javier nodded quietly to himself, turning to examine Kevin's face carefully before he spoke.

"The interview...went about as well as it could have, I guess," Javier began slowly, awkwardly. "It was...like Bennet thought it might be. Reichardt—Konrad—didn't remember anything. Nothing after...after you. Nothing from your life. He wasn't there. But he did give us some background on the victim—not much, but more than we had. And he named a few other possible suspects, though at first we didn't think any of them were viable... Only, it turns out that Adam Monroe isn't as dead as Bennet and everyone else thought he was."

Javier took a deep breath, wetting his lips.

"We kept Konrad in holding while Kate and Bennet went looking for Barbara," Javier said, frowning. "I stayed on the desk. I—"

He hesitated, sitting back and looking down at the surface of the table. Kevin was concerned at his partner's sudden silence, but afraid to reach out to him, fearful that he might startle him once more.

"Only a few people in the station know he was you, Kev," Javier said finally, thankfully looking him in the eye. "I mean, they all saw _you_, but Bennet had Kate process Konrad under his own name. The official story is that Konrad agreed to give us information on Zimmerman, but didn't want to risk exposure. The whole precinct thinks that you volunteered to let him speak through you using an ability. None of them ever understood the real connection between you."

It would have been hard for Kevin to say he understood it himself, but he chose to spare Javier that observation in favor of another.

"That seems real flimsy, Javier," Kevin said weakly.

His partner frowned for a moment before shaking his head.

"Maybe," Javier allowed, "but it's close enough to the truth, and Montgomery's already signed off on it. That's how it's being handled. "

And Kevin saw what Javier was trying to say. He was saying there was a chance that Kevin could walk out of this room and resume the life he had been living before any of this came to light—that his secret was safe, and that the others were all willing to suppress the truth for his sake. Kevin didn't know how he was supposed to feel about that.

"What about the killer, Javi?" Kevin asked anxiously. "Adam Monroe? He knew Konrad, didn't he? What if he talks? Or...even if he doesn't, he's going to need to see trial some day... If we need a witness to get our conviction does that mean I'd have to—"

"_No_," Javier said firmly, cutting him off with a shake of his head. "Kate says that Bennet's been working on an angle with Monroe in order to get him to cooperate, and we've got Barbara as a witness if we need her. Even if she's not enough, there are other bodies Monroe needs to answer for. He's not getting away from this, Kev, and _you—_"

Javier stopped taking a deep breath.

"You don't have to worry about Konrad again," Javier said, very finally. "He isn't coming back. It's over now. Our lives can finally go back to normal."

Kevin wasn't sure that he could believe that last—from the look of it he didn't think Javier believed it either—but Kevin chose to nod his head as if he did all the same.

Several minutes passed before Kevin felt like the task of leaving interrogation was even remotely possible. Even stepping out into the hallway was difficult. A part of him feared looking anyone in the eye—in light of the things he had learned about himself, Kevin was terrified of what he might see. Yet if Kate's relieved greeting seemed a little uncertain it was also plainly heartfelt, and the quick, tight hug he got from Castle took him completely by surprise. Ms. Strauss offered him a sympathetic smile. Bennet, for his part, met Kevin's arrival—his _return_—with an appraising glance before acknowledging him with a simple nod.

"Welcome back, detective," Bennet said.

The walk from interrogation to Montgomery's office felt impossibly strange, as if he didn't walk those same steps almost every day. As they went, Kevin saw that the eyes of the officers they passed held an awed yet wary respect—no doubt, he thought, due to the frightening risk they believed he had taken. While he supposed the risk had been very real, Kevin felt uncomfortable at the attention. The falsehood on which it was based was at the forefront of Kevin's mind...

And with it the certainty that, possessed of all the information, any awe they still felt would find itself tempered naturally by revulsion.

Seated before the captain, Kevin kept his eyes downcast, listening with a quiet, desperate attention as the others made their full report on all that had happened in his absence. Over the course of their debrief, Kevin learned several things.

He learned about Adam Monroe, and the motives of revenge that had led him to murder Jonas Zimmerman with the intent of framing Konrad and forcing his exposure. According to Bennet, the man had agreed—with what, given Adam's earlier goals, Kevin had to assume involved some manner of threat or supernatural coercion—not only to confess his crime but to keep Konrad's existence—at least in his current identity as Kevin Ryan—a secret. It was all very neat and tidy. Yet, while Kevin was endlessly thankful to have been found innocent of Zimmerman's murder, the knowledge that he had still been indirectly responsible for the man's death inflicted a subtle, nagging pain on his conscience, like a sore under his tongue.

He learned that, apparently, there was a recording of Kate's interview with Konrad. The official version had been edited heavily, but a copy of the original had been kept for review by those who already knew his secret. Bennet, Javier, Kate, Castle—each of them had already begun to lose their own memories of the interrogation. And that recording would be available for Kevin to view when he felt he was ready, they told him—though Kevin couldn't even _begin_ to imagine when that might be.

Finally, they told him about Konrad's escape.

Hearing them relate the event—even knowing how everything had turned out—Kevin had experienced a churning surge of panic. Konrad had vanished from interrogation. He had assaulted Kevin's partner and taken his gun. He had basically _kidnapped_ Javier, and the two of them taken off to do God-knows-what only God knew where—though Castle said something about Maryland—and God alone knew _why_, because now his partner didn't remember any of it. Even Kate's assurance that Konrad had returned—and returned _him—_of his own free will couldn't quell the of anxious feeling of dread twisting in his gut.

They had very few leads to work from, and discretion would slow any investigation, otherwise they risked calling attention to why they were tracking the whereabouts of their own detectives... There was a very real possibility that Kevin would never know exactly what his other half had been doing.

Kevin did his best to remain calm, but in the end it was all far too much to take in at once.

He managed a short, choked excuse as he left Montgomery's office, though it was hardly even words. No one stopped him, and when he heard the door open and close behind him he didn't bother to look back—he knew it was Javier who had followed. When his partner finally caught up with him Kevin was standing at the elevator. He had stopped because he didn't even know where he was going—he just needed desperately to be somewhere _else_. But as desperate as he was for some manner of escape—from his circumstances and the impossibility of facing them—he knew it simply wasn't possible.

And he half feared that if he kept going—if he left the precinct and his partner and everyone else behind—he might start running. If he did, he wasn't sure that he could stop.

When Kevin turned around Javier still stood several feet away, though it was nakedly apparent how badly he wanted to close that distance. Kevin thought it was likely his partner was afraid of scaring him into taking off again. In fact, as Kevin considered the lengths to which Javier must have gone to just to keep an eye on him—on _Konrad_, during his escape, even if Javier no longer fully remembered—it became impossible to see the look in his partner's eyes as anything less than panic.

Seeing Kevin bolt like that...

"Shit. Javi, I'm sorry. I didn't mean—" Kevin stopped, shaking his head as he tried to wrangle some control over his thoughts and his breathing. "I just— I need—"

Honestly, Kevin didn't have a clue what he needed. His sanity had been beaten to tatters, and it was all he could do to maintain his hold on the ragged ends of what remained. He was so close to losing his grip completely...

As he watched his partner's panic cool into something else, Kevin thought it was possible Javier understood that.

"No. I get it," Javier said, finally taking a step toward him. His eyes scanned the hallway for a moment before taking cautious hold of Kevin's arm. "Come on."

Kevin wondered very briefly where they were going, but it honestly didn't matter, so he didn't bother to ask, simply allowing himself to be led. They didn't go far. Kevin was surprised when they stopped at the door to one of the men's rooms. Javier opened the door, doing a quick sweep before turning to gesture Kevin in. The gesture turned awkward and loose as his partner looked him over. He seemed uncertain and oddly embarrassed... No doubt due to the skeptical expression that Kevin knew was on his face.

"You need a moment," Javier said, softly. "Take it. Take as long as you need. And when you're ready I'll be waiting."

Though still uncertain, Kevin gave in to the remedy for his partner's sake.

Once the door closed behind him, Kevin found he did feel some small relief. No one was watching him here. He didn't have to worry about what anyone else was seeing. That had been the hardest part of sitting in that office, he realized—the scrutiny, real or imagined. Knowing that the others knew the truth, it was difficult to imagine what they must see when they looked at him, yet at the same time, it was hard not to wonder. Were they looking for cracks, waiting for him to split apart again? Were they trying to see through the illusion now that they knew what lay underneath? Or was it the other way around—did they now have trouble seeing _him _at all? And when he looked at the people who didn't know, it was almost impossible not to speculate what they might think of him if they _did_...

No, Kevin thought with a weak snort, he _did _need some time alone—time to think, and to decide where things stood within his own head before trying to worry about his standing with anyone else.

Alone...or at least as alone as it was possible to be when there was another person lurking deep inside his mind.

That thought drew his gaze to the mirror. It was difficult, at first, to even look himself in the eye—to look upon a face that he now knew wasn't entirely his. Taking a deep breath, Kevin fought the panic and the nausea threatening to creep up on him—_forcing_ himself to look, to lay his claim.

_His_ body. _His_ face. _His_ life.

If Kevin couldn't convince himself to believe that, then there was no point expecting anyone else to.

As he allowed the study of his reflection to roam, Kevin became aware of other details. He took note of the fact that his vest and tie and jacket were all missing. He was also wearing a different shirt than the one remembered putting on the last time he had dressed. He recognized the one he was wearing now—he always kept a few in a locker at the station for all-too-frequent emergencies—but the knowledge that it had been _Konrad_ who had put it on him rendered that otherwise simple detail paralyzingly surreal.

His stomach did a queasy flip when he realized the cut from his encounter with Barbara had healed completely.

The shock left his face somewhat pale, making the few days' neglected growth of his beard stand out on his cheeks and chin. His hair was also a mess, though he recognized that was his own fault from the way he had been pulling on it. Coupled with the shrunken, defensive stance he saw he had fallen into and his avoidance of eye-contact, Kevin thought he looked, appropriately, like a crazy person. Certainly not like anyone he should have recognized.

Kevin let out a self-conscious snort, making an effort to stand up a little straighter as he sorted himself out. He smoothed out the wrinkles in his shirt as best he could, wet his hands from the tap and combed them carefully through his hair. He managed to relax the tension in his shoulders just a little. It wasn't much, but it was an improvement. Looking just that much more put together helped him feel just that much more like a whole person. Offering himself a weak smile, he stuck his hands in his pockets.

He sucked a hiss through his teeth at the sudden, sharp pain in his hand.

Pulling his hand from his pocket, Kevin found the pin he usually wore on the lapel of his jacket. The backing had slipped loose, and he had stuck himself pretty badly. Leaning over the sink, Kevin carefully withdrew the pin from his finger. A few small drops of bright red blood fell into the basin as he quickly turned on the tap, but as he rinsed it under the cold water the sting he was expecting never came. Bringing his hand closer to inspect the damage, Kevin's breath caught when he found none. He had stuck himself badly enough to bleed, and yet there was nothing...

His hands were shaking before he even managed to fully process what that meant.

The pin fell from numb fingers, rattling noisily in the sink as he stared at his hand. As if it were something he had never seen before—as if a part of his brain refused to recognize it as his. Kevin felt his knees start to buckle beneath him, and when they lost the strength to keep him standing he only just managed to catch himself on the edge of the sink. He hung there silently for a while, water soaking through the knees of his slacks from the damp tile, forehead pressed against the cool porcelain of the basin as he tried desperately to regain the stability he had so briefly won. Trying to keep his grasp on a reality that had flown so far past _sane_ that words didn't even exist for it.

And as he knelt there, engaged in his struggle, Kevin shocked himself by letting out a laugh, even one that was half sob by the end of it. Because there was nothing funny about any part of this, and especially not about the understanding that had come crashing down on his head like a brick. Because Javier had been wrong—_painfully_ wrong.

Kevin might have been himself again—whatever that even meant—but nothing about his life was going to be anything close to normal ever again.


End file.
